


Our Place By The Moon

by PearlyDewdrops



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1990s, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Coming Out, Curses, Family Secrets, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Magic Realism, Mentions of Blood, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Mystery, Non-Graphic Violence, Pining, Road Trips, Slow Burn, Witch Harry, Witchcraft, i think, mentions of louis/omc but only at the start and it's barely anything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2019-06-30 18:08:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 99,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15757002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PearlyDewdrops/pseuds/PearlyDewdrops
Summary: “So what’s the real plan here? Got some highly questionable spells stuffed in that rucksack of yours?” Louis narrows his eyes. “Killing curses?” he gasps, making a show of shifting backwards away from Harry, clutching his knees closer to his chest, back pushed against the van’s door.Harry huffs, rolling his eyes. “This isn’t some book you’ve read, alright? But, uh… sort of.”“Oh, great! I’ve got a real-life witch in me van who’s armed with dangerous magic and on the run from other dangerous witches who want to curse your backside. Terrific!”“Don’t forget the helping me find my aunt part,” Harry adds, “or I’ve screwed up my whole family’s lives all by bloody nosing around where I wasn’t supposed to.” He shuts his eyes, whimpering as he cradles his bandaged hand.“Right. Real lives are at stake. Even better.”Or: a late 90's urban fantasy AU in which Louis wants to befriend the strange boy next door, Harry is just trying to keep his family together, and falling in love is most inconvenient for a witch that may have accidentally reignited a centuries old curseꟷone that kinda messes with that.





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, this was supposed to be a 90's road trip AU without anything supernatural to it, but it's turned into this witch!Harry/fantasy/mystery/cursed au thing (that's still set in the 90's). But anyway, I'm excited because it's more plot heavy than I usually write for this fandom and I'm venturing into new territory here with the genre. 
> 
> I'm aiming for about 120k so this'll end up quite a long fic, but we'll see. Get ready for some slow(ish) burn and hope this turns into something worth reading :) xx

 

 

 

 "The moon is always jealous of the heat of the day,

just as the sun always longs for something dark and deep."

\- Alice Hoffman, Practical Magic

 

 

 

 

 

 

_July 1998_

_There’s nothing really different about today._

That's what Louis told himself this morning, and yesterday morning, and the morning before that.

He had to remind himself that there was no blood disturbingly coating hands, no frantic running over muddy forest ground, and no deep green eyes that glowed violet as they stared behind Louis’ eyelids.

(God, he's really got to stop watching horror films with Niall.)

_There’s nothing that’s different._

He woke up at noon. He had cornflakes for breakfast. He mentally did a run-through of his part-time shifts at the pub and told himself there would be time to fit them in around his final year at uni come the new semester at the end of September.

No, everything’s normal. Everything’s ordinary. It’s summer and it’s overbearingly hot and Louis has shit to do, people to wind-up with a bat of his lashes and a charismatic smile. (Definitely no metallic scent clinging to the inside of his nose.)

Pushing the morbid, unsettling thoughts aside, Louis focuses on the sounds of his keys jingling in the deep pocket of his baggy jean shorts as he treads down the stairs, messily chewing on a handful of Skittles and squeezing another lot into his mouth with his open palm. He gets to the last step, launching into a sprint across their narrow hallway, hip bumping into the dresser that mainly houses all the fancy wine glasses, champagne flutes and ostentatious vases that his mother refuses to use over a slightly neurotic fear of damaging them. Louis’ lost count of all the glasses and mugs he’s bought her for birthdays, Christmases and anniversaries over the years, his mum then opting to store them all safely away in her dark wooden cabinet after a high-pitched shower of praise and a kiss.

He pauses mid-step to give the cabinet a quick once over, checking he hasn’t broken anything in his mad dash, pressing his bare foot further into his trainer, a sheen of sweat already gathering underneath his fringe at his temples. He gets to the door with his clammy hand poised on the brass doorknob, glancing behind himself when his gaze catches on a letter, propped up on the cabinet’s desk surface sitting next to the ashtray of assorted door-keys, loose change, and for some reason, Amy’s bright yellow Tamagotchi and her pink glittery hair-clips.

He briefly furrows his brows at the  _Mr H. E. Styles_  addressed to next door in weirdly old-fashioned handwriting until he's distracted by a car alarm outside, almost jumping out of his skin. He’s so skittish, it’s almost funny. Anyway, what's the time? He's got about twenty minutes until the chip shop opens if he still wants to  _accidentally_ bump into the boy he’s kind of, except not at all dating, Finn.

Louis seems to have an annoying habit at the moment: throwing himself at a pointless fantasy.

And he’s probably going to keep on seeking out the cheap, fleeting thrills that Finn offers because apparently, he’s not reached his “too proud” limit, as Niall likes to tell him with concerned frowns. Niall’s having his own troubles in that department that he doesn’t care to share with Louis yet. (He's unusually cagey about who it is too). So, he’s got a very bitter, grumpy Niall to contend with right now. He doesn’t take it to heart. Just thrust a box of cassette tapes Niall's way and it will keep him entertained for hours as he sifts through the contents.

But yeah, until he’s told to piss off, Louis will continue seeing Finn, since he’s more than willing to drag Louis into the back of his car that always smells like cigarettes and an oxygen-robbing deodorant.

Except, Louis’ going to outright ask Finn today, ask him if they’re ever going to be more than a handful of stolen, fumbling moments in the backseat of a beat-down, musty car. (Hey, how poetic.) (He should write a melodramatic song about it.)

And if Finn still wants to play the hot and cold game, then that’s it. He really will be done this time. He will.

(He’ll try.)

Louis yanks the front door open, met with a wall of overbearing heat.

He scrunches his face up, glad he wore a flimsy vest because this summer is turning out to be intolerable on many levels. (Being doused with a bucket of ice cold water wouldn’t go amiss at this point, but unfortunately, there’s an annoying hosepipe ban, too.)

He puffs his cheeks and blows out a deflated raspberry through his slick and sticky lips, already basically coated in sweat when:

“Oi! Where do you think you’re going?”

Louis halts his steps, hovering in the front doorway. He swallows down the rest of his chewed Skittles and pushes his fringe back, slowly rotating on the heels of his Nike trainers. “Just to the chippy, mum. Want anything?”

His mother finally appears at the top of the stairsꟷher bedroom having virtually been her permanent spot all afternoon, sorting out what clothes to pack for her and Amy’s suitcase for Mallorca, their flight booked for ten thirty this eveningꟷher copper hair haphazardly pinned high on her head, cheeks a tad frazzled.

She hums vaguely as she takes the stairs. “Just don’t be too long, yeah?” Louis wonders if he’s imagining the scepticism in her tone. There’s a bottle of sun cream in one of her hands which she drops onto the dresser as she traipses towards Louis, her heeled, strappy sandals clicking against the wooden flooring.

Louis sags against the door frame, squirming sideways when his mother takes his face in her soft hands, pressing her thumbs into the corners just beside his mouth. “Mum,” he whines half-heartedly. "It's too hot for this. I’m melting."

“We’re leaving for the airport in a few hours, remember? I want to see you before we go.” She strokes her fingers under his chin and kisses him on his cheek. Louis smiles wide, knocking her palm with his nose when it starts to tickle him, airy chuckles slipping past his mouth as he pops a few more Skittles onto his stained tongue. “And I obviously need to set a few rules seeing as you have the house to yourself for ten days, hm?” She arches a brow knowingly, suspiciously. “No parties, for starters. Do you hear? I'll  _know_ , no matter how thoroughly you clean this place.” His mum steals some Skittles for herself from the almost empty bag he's clutching.

Louis rolls his eyes. 

Because it’s a useless rule, really. Louis is hardly about to invite anyone over to drink it up withꟷnot when it’s so complicated in his friend group right now. He has no idea what he even wants to  _do_  anymore, let alone who to hang out with, and in some ways, due to some recent self-discoveries and revelations, he honestly feels like a new person, and yet simultaneously still the same one he’s always been.

He’s confused. Like, a lot confused, seeing as he’s new to this. The  _this_  being that he’s only just started to label himself as gay, so he thinks he can be forgiven for feeling a little out of his depth. It’s not like he has anyone to ask about this stuff so he’s kind of on his own right now. He thought Finn would offer him some support since he's been happily getting off with Louis, therefore it’s safe to assume he's at least interested in boys, right? But turns out he’s… who knows what he thinks he’s doing. Experimenting, maybe? He's a bit worried about him. He's not sure if Finn even knows this is all okay. But then Finn will turn around and completely wipe any empathy Louis has for him. He can be a right prat at times.

Because of course Louis is his experiment. The one who gets a front row seat in what exactly that entails. Hence why he’s done after today if Finn won’t give him a straight (no pun intended) answer about what it is they're even doing.

Louis doesn't want bits of someone. He wants more than that, maybe even a proper relationship, and yeah, obviously Louis understands how scary it is, accepting you're a minority and likely an outcast in a still very conservative town, how daunting and lonely a thing that is to some people, especially when there's not exactly many gay people around here, (or at least that Louis knows of) but it is not okay for Finn to mess him about like this.

So, yeah. A foot is being put down. Kind of.

(Mostly it’s a distraction from all the nightmares he’s been having lately.)

But anyway, Louis wants to do _something_ , go somewhere new, too. Make the most of this summer. A change of scenery, if you will, hence his reluctance to go on holiday to Mallorca with his mum and sister again this year like they do every other year, alternating between Mallorca and Majorca. His little sister was quite put-out that Louis wasn’t going with them this year, and he does feel guilty about that. He knows she’ll miss him and he definitely will miss her. 

But this urge for different things might even include some new friends, too. He glances at next door, maybe a bit over-longingly.

“Oh, yeah, because there definitely would've been plenty of alcohol consumption, friskiness on the sofa, maybe a blood sacrificeꟷ”

“Louis.” His mum clips him round the ear, a look of mixed horror and amusement on her face. Louis bursts out laughing.

“Sorry. Too far?” She raises her eyebrows. “It was a joke! The blood sacrifice, at leastꟷ”

“Hm. Just you make sure it is. No funny business, Louis. Not in my house, and certainly not in my living room,” she tells him, stern but not really, not by the mildly exasperated smirk pulling at the corners of her mouth.

“I do know,” Louis replies tunefully.

His mum smiles around an eye roll.

“Won’t be long,” he grins, leans into his mum’s hand briefly and then self-consciously shrugs her off at the sound of a nearby car door slamming, his mum’s eyes following his gaze to where their next-door neighbours are all exiting their black Honda. His mum holds up a hand to give them a wave in greeting. It’s fifty-fifty whether or not they’ll acknowledge them. The family have been rather quiet and kept to themselves all year, other than the random greeting in passing.

Well.  _Quiet,_  Louis thinks, as though he doesn't hear the constant arguing through his bedroom wall.

The husband, bulky in build with a greying hairline, is already striding inside with a box in his arms, not even glancing their way, but the brunette woman, Anne, his mum informed him, in a blue and white patterned sundress, her hair pulled up in a high ponytail and several long pendants hanging around her neck, stops to return Louis' mum’s wave fervently, a matching grin on her seemingly kind face. They've spoken a few times, according to Louis' mum, who thinks Anne's delightful, if a bit guarded and overprotective, especially when it comes to her children.

A bike then whooshes down the road toward them, bell ringing obnoxiously until the brakes screech as it comes to a dramatic halt onto the concrete and pebbled driveway. An array of plants and flower beds and homegrown herbs line the front garden of next door, along with dreamcatchers and other pretty trinkets and charms hanging from a wooden archway in the corner next to the house that Louis supposes leads into their back garden, like some kind of hidden fairy hideout. Louis’ been fascinated with it since Anne first started setting it up. He’d asked her what a few of the herbs and plants would be and she happily told him: some rosemary, sage, lavender, calendula, and lemon balm. She’d quickly changed the subject when he asked her about the odd-looking rose bush that had just begun to bloom which Louis thought was a bit weird.

But that’s not what Louis’ looking at now, and _definitely_ not what has his pulse quicken drastically.

A boy, a bit younger than Louis’ age, in knee-length, dark blue and red floral trunks and an off-white t-shirt, several grass stains stretching across his chest, perches on his bike seat. His head of sleek, floppy and slightly damp brown curls fall around his bright, leafy green eyes, a pair of light brown framed glasses doing little to disguise the prominent crease sitting between his brows. His young, soft features are pinched, oozing sulkiness, and his huge Barbie pink lips that look too big for his face form a mighty pout.

Harry.

Louis' neighbour and bedroom-wall sharer and horribly pathetic crush.

(His entire being might be the stuff of Louis’… ahem. Uh, dreams.)

Louis’ tummy swoops aggressively. Harry's just so mind-numbingly cute, even while scowling. It’s almost really fucking inconvenient how cute and pretty Harry is. It can’t be shooed away. (His foot might also pop but we’re not talking about that embarrassment.)

“Harry,” Anne says, her previously kind smile erased. Louis’ practically thrown, frowning at the sudden switch in her usually pleasant demeanour. “Harry?” she repeats, tone harder this time. A beat. "Where have you been?" It doesn't sound like a question, rather more of an accusation.

"Library," is all Harry replies to the ground.

“ _Really_?”

Louis watches as Harry begrudgingly meets his mum’s aggravated stare. He stays seated on his bike, pink, battered Converse clad feet placed firmly on the ground on either side of his pedals. His hands tighten on the handles of his shimmery blue bike as they stare it out. And boy, do they. It’s so awkward, incredibly tense and Louis is so uncomfortable right now. He feels his mum shift just as awkwardly beside him. Do they move or?

“Yes,” Harry replies quietly. He looks rather guilty to Louis in his experience. He wonders what the other boy’s been up to to draw this reaction out of Anne.

“Inside, please. We need to talk,” Harry’s mum says firmly. She looks at him for another moment and then she’s walking inside too, sending one last wave to them and then following her husband, leaving Harry alone on the driveway, hands clutching tightly to the bike’s handles. Louis’ eye pause on the ruby ring Harry has on his middle finger.

Harry seems to wait until his mother’s out of sight before he releases a laboured sigh, one that deflates his shoulders, drains some of the life out of him, tilting his head up a little towards the cloudless sky.

It’s been obvious since this family arrived that they’re far from a happy one and that there’s a stack load of issues between Harry and his parents, judging by all the yelling and slamming of doors that Louis hears most days. The walls are paper thin as it is.

And then Harry’s swinging his leg over his bike and walking it round to the far side of their semi-detached house, seemingly unaware of their now undoubtedly weird presence at the front door. But Louis continues to watch him, can barely tear his gaze away when he feels his mum nudge his side. He looks up.

“Don’t be long, yeah?” she smiles faintly. "We can’t leave any later than eight, love."

Louis nods. "Yeah, yeah, I'll be back long before then. Promise," he smiles, finally stepping out onto the straw mat and into the late summer heat.

The front door accidentally slams shut behind him, making Louis jolt just slightly, and then Harry re-appears, walking up his own driveway to his front door. He glances at Louis.

Louis automatically smiles easily at him.

Harry looks steadily back, almost like he's attempting to study Louis' face, as though he’s looking for something in particular and Louis’ stomach starts to droop, swoop, fall, wondering if he’s not going to smile back at all.

But then slowly, sort of timidly, Harry returns it, his impossible rosy lips pulling into an upward curve, albeit fairly sadly, like he’s torn in two minds about whether or not he should even be smiling at Louis. His slender shoulders are slightly hunched as his eyes flicker to the front window of his house. The curtains twitch. Harry averts his gaze.

Which promptly washes Louis’ own smile away and in turn causes Harry’s to disappear just as quickly, hurrying to his door rather than stopping to chat like Louis wanted to finally do with him, having been silently playing this back and forth game made up of shy smiles, aborted steps and flamed cheeks for months. Like a pair of besotted teenagers. (Louis’ well into twenty now so he really should have outgrown this giddy, embarrassing crushing phase. Kinda.)

They’ve been neighbours with The Styles' for almost a year now and so far, most of his interactions with Harry have been clouded by an air of fraught awkwardness, no more than a few friendly words exchanged each time they’ve bumped into each other leaving the house or walking home. That and Louis seems to have developed a knack of only bumping into Harry after he’s had some sort of verbal struggle with his parents. Harry’s stormed out in a strop and his mother’s trailed after him many a time, shooting Louis an apologetic smile before Harry turns to the closed front door that his mum is behind and looks incredibly guilty and regretful himself.

Louis frowns deeply and Harry’s unfairly green eyes are back on him cautiously, thoroughly sweeping over Louis’ face, the air thick not only with humidity but with something else, something heavy and dizzying and curious all at once, smooth and plush like velvet, Louis pulse thudding underneath his skin, itchy with the almost desperate need to be closer to the other boy, just wanting to get to know him, what he’s even thinking right now, because the way he’s looking at him… it’s… _addictive_. And Louis is close to wanting Harry to never look away.

And dear god. Louis’ got it bad for this boy, inexplicably feeling this near overwhelming pull towards him. He just can’t stop staring like a weirdo.

Harry holds Louis’ gaze another moment over his shoulder as he steps over the threshold into his home and the front door quietly clicks shut. The curtains move again.

Well, then. Louis exhales the disappointment and then he remembers where he was even off to in the first place and rubs his hands over his face, running them further back into his hair, squinting underneath the approaching evening sun.

He’s not sure he even wants to go now, would much rather try and piece together the question mark that is Harry instead.

With a sigh, his feet start moving anyway.

He doesn’t catch the small bud within the striking lilac rose bush, the one that blooms impossibly quickly as he walks away, nor does he notice the curtains from Harry’s front window that twitch once more behind him.

 

***

 

The chip shop is open when Louis arrives; Finn is just outside, about to start his shift.

Louis runs a hand through his hair and takes a breath, steeling himself as he strides up to where Finn is casually leaning against the shop window, finishing a cigarette. His car is parked on the other side of the road.

“Hi,” Louis says immediately upon reaching him, stopping just in front of where Finn takes another inhale, eyeing Louis curiously. Louis takes in what he’s wearing underneath his white coat, long sleeves rolled up to his elbows, presumably because of the heat. He’s wearing Umbro tracksuit bottoms and his flat chest is only partially covered with a baggy red vest, if it wasn’t for his uniform hiding his arms.

Then Louis realises he still hasn’t received a response.

Finn’s body is stiff, a little standoffish and Louis frowns, feeling his insides wilt with every passing, awkward second. There’s a hint of uneasiness swirling around Finn’s dark pupils the longer Louis stands there and he has half a mind to just bail because this is honestly pointless. Louis’ never going to get a boyfriend out of this thing they have going on. Louis senses he really is about to get dumped this time.

“Hi,” Finn echoes at last, like the word has literally been forcibly squeezed out of his voice box. He makes no attempt to start up a conversation so Louis dives right in to what he wants to know before he goes inside to start work. There’s no one queueing up yet, probably too hot and bothered to eat at the moment.

“Are we, uh, you know,” Louis starts, taking a pause. He steers his head subtly in the direction of Finn’s car. God, he feels a bit like crap right now. This is embarrassing. “Are we meeting up tonight?” He pretends to itch the back of his neck for something to do, chuckling nervously.

Finn squares his shoulders; they’re quite scrawny really, Louis notes. He’s definitely more defined than Finn is. Not that it matters at all. Or, like. Whatever. Finn’s gaze meets Louis’ apprehensively. “Uh, no, I don’t think so,” he replies uneasily. “I have plans.”

“Oh, okay,” Louis says immediately, probably too quickly, awkwardly pressing up on the pavement with the heels of his Nikes.

“Yeah, um. I’m meeting Jodie at the pub.”

Oh. Right.

“I thought it was Tracey?”

“That was last week.”

Louis sighs. "Right. Yeah, okay." He pauses, scraping the toe of his trainer across the gum-stained asphalt. "But. Like, are youꟷ So. Are you two like… Well. Do you like her? I mean, like _, fancy_ her?"

Finn shifts his weight from foot to foot, averting his eyes from Louis' inquiring stare. He takes another drag of his cigarette and shrugs. “She’s alright.”

Louis makes a face, dissatisfied. "Only ‘ _alright_ ’,” he imitates Finn’s lack of enthusiasm. “Then why are you meeting up with her?"

Finn shrugs again. "She's alright,” he repeats. Takes another inhale. Exhales.

"What about me?" Louis says, feeling bolder.

"Well, yeah... obviously, you’reꟷyou know," he mutters quietly. 

“I’m not sure I do.”

Finn sighs, threading a hand through his hair. Louis feels a mild sort of interest, but it’s not like before. Maybe this is just fizzling out, anyway.

“I wouldn’t have done anything I didn’t want to do.”

Louis perks up. "Yeah? So then come out with me instead. Stay  _in_  with me instead," he urges suggestively, playing nudging Finn’s shin with the toe of his trainer, grinning.

"I can’t. Sorry."

“Don’t fancy me?” Louis asks bluntly.

“What? What are youꟷyou know you’reꟷalright.”

Finn’s face is bright red. Louis feels a smidgen triumphant.

“Seriously?” he says, bored.

“What do you want me to say?” Finn says, flustered, but more irritated now. Louis seems to have hit a nerve with trying to get him to verbalise his feelings, preferences, what have you.

This isn’t going great.

Louis groans, wiping a sheen of sweat off his forehead and exhales tiredly. “Nothing,” he bites out, “but I think we’re done with the whole,” he gestures vaguely, “getting heavy in your car thing.”

Finn looks confused. Louis feels very confused.

“What? So, us… Never again?"

"Look."Louis softens his tone. “I'm no expert with this, alright? But, I dunno…” he begins hesitantly, apprehensive about overstepping, “maybe there’s, like, a _reason_ why you end up asking a girl out whenever we’ve just hooked up? Especially if you don't even genuinely fancy them?”

Finn stares at Louis, eyes wide. He fiddles with the disintegrating cigarette between his fingers and tips his head back, clearly uncomfortable as he hides his eyes with his free hand. Louis grimaces, taking a step closer.

"And I understand what you’re feeling is new and confusing and probably kind of terrifying when everyone you hang out with is making homophobic jokes left, right and centre, like it's nothing, but if you want to talk to someone, like. I’m here?"

Louis tries a reassuring smile.

But Finn is staring at him like he’s just told him his team has been relegated. It’s a picture of horror, basically. 

“Huh?" Finn shakes his head. "Louis, you’re a nice lad, okay? But I just… I don’tꟷI don’t know, okay?” His tone is dismissive, but he looks and sounds so desperate that Louis almost feels really bad for him. Almost.

Because Louis hasn’t forgotten yesterday evening when Finn ditched Louis, leaving him on his knees in the park with no jeans on because he felt like it. He’d thought it was funny. An orgasm for him and supreme humiliation for Louis.

Louis wasn’t even wearing underwear, stupidly taking his clothes off because Finn told him to. (And also, it was fucking sweltering.) He had to run home like that, hiding behind bushes and brick walls on the way, darting behind cars in case the neighbours clocked an eyeful and told his mum.

“God,” Louis whispers, hanging his head and staring at the ground for a second as he squeezes his forehead. He feels a headache coming on. “Okay, but if you still need to talkꟷ”

“No," Finn cuts him off, swallowing thickly. "I don’t. You're right. I think we’re done now." He drops his cigarette to the ground, stamps on it too aggressively. But when Louis glances at his face, Finn looks like he’s about to crumple.

And Louis feels like shit.

“Okay, yeah. Probably best, anyway. I'm more the boyfriend-type and this was never going to be that, was it?" he smirks self-deprecatingly. 

Finn glances at him once more, then turns to start work when he sees his boss gesturing for him to get inside.

Louis turns to do the same before he remembers something else and swings back around, holding the door open. “Just, if you  _do_  change your mind, don’t call my landline again, ‘kay?" He says in a hushed voice as Finn makes his way round the counter. "Explaining to my mother why "that bad-mannered shit from the down the road” is calling every Friday night is enough of a headache as it is.”

Finn glares. “Find a new chippie, yeah?" he clips. "I don't need the extra aggro of serving you cod,” he mutters, though the hurt in his voice is evident. Jesus. Louis lets himself wilt in defeat. He really didn’t  _want_  this to end badly.

“Done. The chips are dry, anyway.”

It's as he's reaching for the door that he hears a bike's bell, the unmistakable sound of the chain rotating and the screech of the wheels braking as Harry comes bounding round the corner, into the view of the open windows and stops outside the chip shop, hopping off the saddle and propping it up against the low brick wall bordering the shop. 

Louis’ heartbeat starts pounding inside his head, the sound only growing louder when Harry looks up and sees him; his eyes pause on Louis, taking him in rather intimately, gaze snagged on Louis with intense concentration. And Jesus, Louis can't stop his fingers reaching up for the collar of his t-shirt and stretching the fabric away from his tacky skin, because Harry's attention is too much for Louis to deal with. Not in this fucking heat, thanks. His legs are already getting weak, going all stupid and useless over his crush making eye-contact with him, because this is definitely what this is.

And now Harry's walking towards him, towards the chip shop, steps slow because, uh, Louis is just standing here, blocking the doorway of the shop and making no move to clear the path. Staring. God, Harry must think he's a freak.

He’s still standing here, even as Harry walks right up to him, brows slightly furrowed and hesitant, wringing his hands together.

Louis looks at them. His long fingers. His ruby ring bright against the contrast of the creaminess of his skin. Dazed.

"Um? Can I?" Harry says, tilting his head in the direction of the door, smiling.

"Louis, get out the way, you idiot," Finn suddenly shouts. "I have customers?" 

Harry's not wearing his glasses, is what Louis’ mind thinks is important to note. He looks even more fit now that he can really see his eyes. And god. They're so _green_. He noticed before, he's always noticed, but there's something that rings them, some kind of... magic. What? What's he going on about? Louis swallows around a dry lump in his throat, pulse quickening. It’s so hot. God.

He feels another sharp swoop in his belly, like he’s been flung off a swing, five feet off the ground.

Harry's brows only furrow deeper, teeth biting on a section of his plump, red lip. "Um. Are you okay?"

"Shit," Louis finally snaps out of whatever the fuck that was he just pulled. "Sorry! Uh, yeah! God, what am I evenꟷ Go ahead. Please! Sorry, I'm miles away," he chuckles manically. Like an absolute div. Fuck.

"It's okay," Harry breathes out over a small laugh, and then he's holding the chippie's door as Louis lets go, passing Louis and walking up to the tills to be served by Finn. “Uh, just one portion of chips, please.”

Finn nods and gets on with Harry’s order.

Louis stands there like an idiot for another five seconds before he realises he’s staring at Harry and makes a dash for it, intent on hurriedly striding down the road.

He looks behind himself as he exits the chippie, still in view of the large windows. Finn catches his gaze, though it wasn't him Louis was trying to look at.

Harry notices, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his shorts and follows the direction of Finn's probably unprofessional stare as he rolls up the chips in a paper cone.

There's a flash of surprise on Harry's open face and Louis pauses at the pavement, watching as Harry tilts his head slightly as he gazes steadily back at Louis before he's shaken out of his brief stupor by Finn, who’s finished wrapping Harry’s portion of chips and hands it over to him, a mild sort of glare covering his face.

Louis tells himself he definitely does not feel the hot weight of Harry's eyes searing into his back as he resumes his walk home.

 

***

 

When Louis does get home, Mum and Amy are pretty much packed and ready to go, are only hanging around a bit longer for dinner and then Louis has the house all to himself. Though it’s a toss-up as to whether he’s going to stick around here that much for the next week. (His van is in the garage and he’s not taken it out for many spins yet since he got his licence.)

Maybe he’ll go on his own little adventure of self-discovery. Drive into Manchester or something. Go to a gay bar, maybe. (But on his own? Hm. Maybe not.)

“Can you dish up Amy’s spaghetti, love? Just have to grab her armbands from my wardrobe. Can’t believe I almost forgot them!”

His mum brushes his shoulder as Louis nods through the mouthful of garlic bread that he’s just swiped off the worktop and makes a beeline for the boiled spaghetti and the pan of sauce left on low heat.

“You know you’d easily be able to buy a new pair out there, mum!” he calls, delayed, giving the thick orangey red sauce a stir and looks over at Amy. She lifts her chin up at him, bits of garlic and grease smeared over her eight year-old chin and sticks out her tongue, then she grins, looking like a baby goblin, especially as she’s still missing two of her incisors.

“Close your mouth, Gummy Bear.”

“Oh!” Amy's eyes widen. “Gummy bears,” she announces excitedly, clapping her hands together. “And I wouldn’t mind some Jelly Babies, too.”

“Ah, ah,” Louis warns. “Dinner first.”

“You always eat Skittles and Jelly Babies before dinner,” Amy accuses, quickly swapping her grin for a glare in an impressive transition, jutting out her bottom lip. And she’s right. He’s one to talk. He can devour a couple packets of Skittles a day. He should probably lay off unless he wants to be an actual Gummy Bear before he’s thirty.

Amy groans behind her hands because she’s a little drama queen. Louis makes a duck face at her. There’s a pretty big age gap between himself and his little sister, but he loves doting on her; taking her to the park and into town, enjoys the responsibility of keeping her safe and entertained when his mum is working late, which means he picks her up from her after-school clubs and activities and scares the kids who’ve got something spiteful to say about his sister’s trainers for P.E with dead-eyed glares. That usually does the trick.

It's not like he’s got any magical powers to give them a scare, as cool as that would be. (Yeah. He’s just finished reading _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_ and he’s decided he wants to be a wizard. It was supposed to be some bedtime reading for Amy, but Louis stole it for himself. He’s very invested in the lives of those poor kids.)

She grins at him again, as though she has a secret. Louis smirks back and she flicks at his nose as she leans onto the table.

He jumps, far more dramatic than necessary. “Oi! What did I ever do to you?”

Amy sniggers as she tries to tug at his t-shirt collar, planting her grease-covered face in the crook of Louis’ neck and sniffs loudly.

“What are you doing? God, you’re such a pain. The bane of my life!”

Amy eyes him inquisitively. “You smell like perfume,” she states simply, her big blue eyes sparkling with mirth.

“It’s aftershave, actually.”

“Do you like somebody?”

Louis lowers the spatula, raising his eyebrows. “Excuse me. Do you want dinner or not? Because I can easily give this to Hermione if you don’t want it.” (The cat from next door.)

“Who’s Hermione?” Amy snorts as she attempts to put her cold hand down Louis’ back from where she’s been holding on to her Diet Coke filled with ice.

“ _Who’s Hermione_?” Louis gasps dramatically, swatting her away. “Do you mean to tell me you don’t listen to a word I read to you of the _Harry Potter_ books!”

“Um…” Amy puts a finger to her chin and pretends to hum innocently.

“I am shocked! _Shocked_.” Amy falls into giggles. Annoying adorable giggles. “Right. This is definitely all mine now.” He huddles over the pan, hiding it away.

“No!” Amy ceases her attack and sits back down, feigning innocence as their mother walks back in into the kitchen. “Louis is trying to starve me, mum!”

Louis’ jaw drops open. “Why you littleꟷ” Amy sticks out her tongue. Louis grins.

Mum looks between them suspiciously. “What’s all this noise?”

“You had a gremlin instead of a baby girl. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, mother.”

His mum chuckles, ruffling his hair as she brushes past him.

Louis squints at Amy around a smile and uses a piece of kitchen towel to wipe at her face, maybe a bit overly vigorous. Amy squawks and shoves his hand away, the tips of her curly blonde locks about to dip into her glass of Diet Coke.

“Careful, gremlin. Your hair’s only just been washed today.”

“Alright, mum,” Amy retorts, rolling her eyes.

“What’s that?” their mum asks distractedly, gathering some things from the dryer.

“Nothing,” they say in unison, both snickering under their breath. Amy leans over on her elbows to watch Louis pour the sauce over her plate of steaming spaghetti, Louis teasingly tapping the back of her hand when she tries to drag it to her place on the table before he’s quite finished.

“I’ll be back in ten, you two,” his mum tells them as she disappears again, no doubt forgotten something else to pack in their suitcase.

“Don’t forget to pack your toothbrushes!” Louis calls.

“Already bought new ones!”

“Incredible!”

“Oi, you!” he mum calls back and Louis smiles to himself.

Once he’s dished out Amy’s dinner, he sits on the other side at the table, which just so happens to be in direct view of the bedroom window that’s just visible through the roof of their conservatory that leads into the kitchen.

Harry’s bedroom.

Louis tries not to be nosy but when Harry traipses in, collapsing onto his bed in a heap, he can’t help but stare. Just a bit.

Harry sits up with his back against the wall, facing the window. He wipes both of his hands over his face and then his eyes seem to instantly find Louis’. Louis immediately ducks his head, pretends to be concentrating on Amy, upsetting her hair and smoothing it down needlessly. While Amy makes a face at him, brows furrowing.

“What are you doing to my hair?”

“Hm?” Louis makes the mistake of glancing up toward Harry again and yelps. Harry’s staring right at him. Amy shoves his hand away and spins around to look at what has Louis’ attention piqued.

“Who’s that?” She kneels on her chair, blatantly looking at Harry who’s in the privacy of his own room and doesn’t need Louis and Amy gawking at him as though he’s an actual alien that’s just landed on earth opposite their kitchen.

“No one,” Louis answers too quickly, bunching up his little sister’s hair into a high ponytail with his hands.

“Right,” Amy drawls, releasing herself from Louis’ grip on her hair that falls back on her shoulders and gives her Coke a slurp. She takes another look at the window. “Oh, it’s the boy who lives next door, isn’t it?” She pauses, taking another sip. “He stares a lot.” Another loud slurp. “He’s weird.”

“Hush your mouth. He’s not weird. You’re weird.” Louis covers her mouth with his palm as her muffled voice starts to whine. “He’s probably just shy. I’m shy sometimes, you know.”

Amy snorts.

“I bloody am,” he retorts.

Amy gasps. “You swore.”

“Hardly.”

“Can I say it then?”

“No.”

Louis hesitantly slides his gaze back to the glass roof; surprisingly, Harry is still blatantly staring back at him from his window and hasn’t got up to close his curtains. He should really invest in some blinds. It’s not good for Louis’ sanity, having him there so close, so exposed. God, what if Harry was bloody shirtless while he was near the hot stove? Louis’d lose a hand.

But, Amy’s right. Harry does seem to have a problem with staring. He's sure he doesn't quite mean to look so scary.

Unthinkingly, Louis raises his hand and gives Harry a little wave, hoping to a higher being that this is not coming across creepy and like he’s ogling Harry, or something. Then again, Harry is the one staring at Louis like that, eyes pinning him in place in his chair, still not making a move to get up and give himself some privacy by obscuring the intrusive view.

Louis swears there’s a smirk tugging at Harry’s frankly obscene mouth, his eyes gleaming brightly, almost too brightly to be possible, especially from this distance. God, they’re so _green._

Finally, Harry gets off the bed and walks to the window.

And shuts his curtains.

Louis clears his throat, face hot, and looks up to find Amy’s gaze on him, curious. 

"Is that boy your friend now?"

A groan slips past Louis' teeth, and he slumps onto the table, garlic bread crumbs sticking to his forehead.

 

***

 

Louis jerks awake with an embarrassing yelp, distantly aware that Third Eye Blind are blaring in his ears.

He’s on his bed, lying awkwardly on his stomach on top of the covers, one arm twisted underneath him and the other behind his back, bum slightly in the air. He blinks his eyes open, tired and disorientated, a pounding headache torturing him behind his eyes, the music from his headphones growing infinitely louder the more conscious he becomes. There’s pressure digging into both of his temples, too.

 _Ow. Ow. Ow. Water._ That’s basically his brain on a loop.

He’s about to perish from dehydration and a set of burst eardrums (and those ciders earlier on can’t have helped).

Oh.

That reminds him: the park.

Swings. An orangey pink sunset. Youthful romanticism. Weed. Cigarettes and alcohol. A typical day in an Oasis song, basically, minus any brawls or fist fights.

He’d seen his mum and Amy off for the airport and then gone to the park to meet Niall.

Hayley, Anna and Rhona were there with their bare legs hanging off the graffiti-stained wall bordering the playground, sending Louis bored death glares while the ex-object of Louis’ affections blatantly tried it on with Hayley. Annoyingly, the display still had jealousy sinking into Louis’ bones, and Anna and Rhona smirking around a roll-up each.

Finn was flirting with the girls right in front of Louis’ face, traitorously imagining sweaty scenarios (because he’s a young lad and randy) that absolutely did not involve dodging wasps and swatting bloody flies away in the evening sun, the heat unbearably sticky to be in, causing Louis’ t-shirt to cling uncomfortably to his back and chest.

And he wished Harry was there, because apparently Harry had taken up a persistent residence in Louis’ brain.

So, all in all, as he downed his drink on the grass, Louis was in a foul mood. He was sitting at the bottom of the slide, rigid and irritable (and he’d managed to brush into some stinging nettles on the way there, so his calves were throbbing and burning like mad), and he really wouldn’t have been minded if someone had slid down it and trampled him, to be honest.

When he’d poured enough cider down his throat, Louis decided he’d had enough.

“Oh, here he goes. Off again,” Anna clipped faux-sweetly as he got up. “You just love to bail on things after five minutes, don’t you, Lou?”

“What the hell is that meant to mean?” He scowled at her, a biting remark poised on the tip of his aggravated, razor sharp tongue before noting that her ankle was hooked around Hayley’s leg, her arm clutched around her shoulders in a, dare he say, _mine_ grip. Louis zeroed in on the contact for all of two seconds, curious, when he was interrupted by George, pulling him away by the bicep and flipping Anna the bird as he headed towards the monkey bars. They retaliated by chucking empty cans at his head.

“Hey,” Louis said, jostling George’s giggling face away. “They haven’t done anything wrong, dick. They’re only looking out for Hayley.” He sighed. Yeah. Hayley. His former kind of-girlfriend of four months who seemed to be as completely disinterested in Louis romantically as he was with her. She was his friend more than anything else, always had been. And hardly heartbroken like Anna and Rhona wanted to claim.

So, why Anna specifically seemed to be so obsessed with directing snide comments at Louis was weird. Her grip tightened on Hayley’s hand whenever Louis had got up to get more cider, passing them in their position on the wall beside the swings, her scowl prominent on her freckled face the entire duration of the night.

Hayley was merely laughing into her cup, leaning back into Anna’s space, face pressed into Anna’s red hair, to which Anna sent Louis a smug smirk. Hm. Maybe it wasn’t so weird. Maybe Anna was into Hayley… in _that_ way. She sure was possessive and for one, probably weed-induced moment, Louis could have _sworn_ her eyes flashed purple.

Even weirder. Maybe he was suffering from sleep deprivation from all the nightmares. Then he was overcome with a dizziness and felt himself shudder sharply, a chill stroking down his spine like someone was dragging a freezing cold fingertip down his back; it was almost a welcome release from the heat. Momentarily caught off-guard, he stumbled, assaulted by the image of bloody hands behind his eyes for the fifth time that week. He took a deep breath and exhaled, pressing his palms to his eye sockets.

When he took his hands away from his face, he saw Anna staring right back at him.

Louis lifted a confused, unsettled brow, which earned him another pleased shrug from Anna, eyes twinkling. She seemed almost witchy sometimes. There were vibes. Not in a horrible way, but like, sometimes Louis was convinced she practised spells with her mother, who had a whole garden of special homegrown herbs and stuff just like Harry's mum did. But whatever. Louis’ always thought it was a plausible option.

“Anna’s had it in for you ever since you started going out with Hayley,” George began, walking backwards as he tried to keep up with Louis walking to the other side of the playground. _Yeah_ , he thought, _and it’s starting to become pretty clear why_. “I dunno what it is with her, but she constantly looks like she’s about a second away from throttling you. She’s scary, man.”

“Yeah, I’m not gonna lie, I find that a touch worrying,” Louis frowned. “What am I supposed to have done? Breaking up with someone doesn’t deserve all this abuse, surely? Hayley didn’t even like me.” Louis left out the part where he admitted definitely didn’t like her either.

“But you know what she’s always been like with her, Lou. She practically clings to her legs.” Louis flicked his gaze back over to them as he sat down next to the slide. Anna now had Hayley’s legs in her _lap_. Well, then. He arched an eyebrow.

“You’re not bloody far off,” Louis muttered, using his eyes to point to them. Wow.

George stayed standing, looming over Louis as he followed his gaze. “She thinks you’re gonna try and get back with her the second she stops looking so she’s marking her territory,” George said casually. Louis sent him a grimaced look.

“God, I feel like I’m on the Discovery Channel.”

George took a sip from his bottle. “So,  _are_ you?”

“On the Discovery Channel?”

“No, you pillock. Are you gonna try and get back with Hayley?”

“No! Why would I do that?” Louis insisted. “Of course not. Trust me, that is _not_  happening.”

“Okay, okay! Wow, Jesus. Don’t leave any room for doubt, eh?” George laughed, raising his hands and stalking away backwards to re-join the others. “You make me laugh.”

Louis sighed as he sat down on the grass next to Niall. He knew very well he wasn’t ready for everyone to know just yet. If one of them found out he was gay it would spread around like wildfire and Louis just wasn’t ready for that, even if he was completely comfortable with who he was.

Well. There was one person that knew.

“You okay?” Niall asked him from his spot lounging on the grass, drinking while lying down, which can’t have been a good idea.

“Careful, there. I’m not in the mood to hold back your hair if you puke.”

Niall just laughed. “I’m made of steel, don’t worry about me. You, though. You sure you’re alright?”

“Fine.”

Niall eyed him closely, sending a quick glance towards the others.

“What?” Louis sighed.

“Spliff?” Niall handed him the tiny stick discreetly. “You look like you need it. And I sure as fuck do.”

“What’s wrong?” Louis asked, concerned.

“I’m a bitter old man at the ripe age of eighteen is what’s wrong.”

Louis opened his mouth to speak.

“No, save it. I’m not in the mood. But thanks. To whatever you were gonna say. Anyway. Spliff?”

Louis just sighed louder. “Thanks,” he mumbled, taking one drag before he got up again.

“Bye, Lou! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Anna called as he strode back to his van. Honestly. What had he ever done to her? He gets being protective of her friend, but Louis didn’tꟷwell. Okay, so maybe there’s a grey area… and. Oh, shit. What if she saw them? Him and Finn? What if that was why she was acting more hostile than usual? Not because she likes Hayley but because she's a...

Fuck.

This put Louis in an even worse mood, awful scenarios where Anna was planning to out him to the whole town running through his mind, and it was better for everyone if he was just left to blow off some steam in his room, the whole house to himself now that his mum and sister were on holiday.

Not that much of that happened. Blowing off steam, that is. Seems he just fell asleep.

Only now he’s awake.

Fucking great.

It takes another moment before he registers the unbearable humidity and stuffiness of his bedroom, the lingering scent of the late-night burger he had a few hours ago making him swallow around a dry heave, his throat chalky. He launches himself up into a sitting position, rolling the crick in his shoulder and notices that the heat has seemingly created a light sheen of _paste_  of sun cream and sweat over his skin. Okay, so he might be exaggerating a bit, but _god,_  Louis needs a cold shower. 

Disgusting. He feels disgusting, skin tacky, and he's irritated as a result. Then there's the bugs, the sleepless nights, the sunburn. Who ever said summer was the best season of the year? (No one Louis wants to talk to, that’s who.) And he fell asleep in his clothes. Again. Ugh. Hot. Too. Fucking. Hot.

He groans, whimpering pitifully as he attempts to blindly wriggle out of his denim shortsꟷ‘Semi-Charmed Life’ still playing too loudly in his earsꟷand chucks them across the room, so he’s left in just his boxers and the loose, Ninja Turtles t-shirt he’s wearing.

If that wasn’t enough, in his eagerness to twist around to get back into a comfortable position to sleep in, he almost bloody chokes himself with his headphone wires that somehow got tangled around his neck, apparently having dozed off listening to his Walkman. Again.

“Ugh,” he grunts and flops back down again, crinkling his nose because he can distinctly smell the wafting, familiar scent of weed festering in his stuffy, oven of a room.

That’s not his weed. Louis definitely would have remembered smoking weed at home. He's pretty certain he turned down Niall's offer.

Unless he was so high that he doesn’t remember.

Louis rubs at his droopy eyes and inspects his surroundings: his rumpled blue bedsheets stained with a few splotches of salsa dip, his bedside table crowded with mostly used batteries, cassette tapes without their cases, screwed-up gum wrappers, and half-eaten packets of Skittles and Opal Fruits. Oh, and there's a cheap, miniature sewing-kitꟷa free gift that came with this week’s issue of  _Smash Hits_ ; the only reason he bought it being that the patches in the kit included rainbows which he plans on sewing into his denim jacket. Or he would do if he could master the art of being able to sew. And it’s not like he can really ask his mum to sew a rainbow into his jacket. 

(Well, he _could_  ask his mum, but that would generate a slew of questions Louis really isn’t keen on answering just yet. His mum is  _not_  stupid.)

He sighs, leaves his face buried in his pillow for another few moments until his ears become irritated with Third Eye Blind blaring at a volume they do not appreciate now that’s he woken up at a weird hour, so he yanks his headphones off, disorientated and quite frankly parched.

He reaches for the unopened water bottle at the end of his bed, poking out of his bag and downs it, the water disgustingly warm.

Has he mentioned it's hot? 

Christ, there’s barely any air in his room, despite the fact he apparently left the window open. Ah. That explains the wafting smell of weed. He looks over at his alarm clock, obscured by the mess beside his bed. He pushes the Skittles packet away. It’s 4:22am. Late, then.

Louis lies there a bit longer, until his bladder starts screaming at him to empty it and then he’s up and tripping over his Playstation controllers in his mad haste to get to the bathroom. When he comes back, he collapses back onto his bed, face down in the duvet. Right. Okay. Sleep.

His eyes are closed approximately three seconds.

“Shit,” someone categorically _not_  Louis hisses, followed by a louder, deeper, “ _Fuck_.”

Louis lifts his head up, hair sticking up like a hedgehog’s spikes, his bleary eyes searching around his bedroom for the source of the voice until he realises it’s coming from outside his window.

there’s what sounds like rubber soles squeaking against something solid. Weird. Then more hushed swearing. Pretty colourful swearing at that, and if Louis wasn’t so tired and dazed, he’d laugh.

“What the hell?” he says aloud, brows furrowed. Is someone climbing up the tree outside his window? It’s situated a fair distance away from the window’s sill so unless they’re freaking Spiderman, he doesn’t fancy their chances at jumping through to his bedroom without suffering a mighty fall. He sits up properly, groaning, and swings his legs off the bed to get to his window that he left wide open because it’s so unbearably muggy and it hasn’t helped at all; a man needs to be able to fucking  _breathe_.

He sticks his head out, relishing the faintest bit of coolness on his face and looks to his left.

Okay.

Not who Louis was expecting; if he was expecting anyone it was a big burly man who wants to rob him for his new Game Boy, not Harry. Pretty, impossibly green-eyed Harry, dangling himself out of his own bedroom window.

What the hell is he doing?

Then again, Louis’ supposes he’s seen him do some fairly odd things in the eleven months Harry and his family have lived next door. And he’s gathered some facts and interesting tidbits about Harry in that time.

Like, he knows Harry attendsꟷor did attendꟷthe local Sixth Form college and has finished his second year of his A-Levels. He’s been seemingly a popular face amongst the rest of the kids there, plenty competing for his attention, but peculiarly he mostly seemed to be out and about by himself when the clock hit four, save for the times Louis has often seen him sat with a few people at the café where he works, sitting in booths on his break with a milkshake and another curly-haired brunette boy in a backwards cap and a Scottish girl who wears her hair in short, dirty blonde plaits, always smiling and strangely carries a pack of tarot cards, never without a choker with a dark purple planet pendant around her neck. Louis’ walked in to find them huddled together and scribbling things down in this massive, weirdly bumpy, ancient-looking book too many times to count and Harry’s cheeks always turn positively crimson when he sees Louis not-so-subtly watching them.

They do normal stuff too, though. Like when Harry and his mates go to the cinema in town where Louis works behind the tills and Harry has bought tickets from him. Only, his huge green eyes are always unblinking, and he looks at Louis like he’s either the most intimidating or interesting thing Harry’s ever seen.

Louis may have lost his mind when their fingers have fleetingly, clumsily brushed as he’s handed Harry his change, charmed by the flaming pink blushes that always seem to arise on Harry’s cheeks, never not endeared when Harry trips over his mumbled words, saying things like, “yeah, you too,” when Louis’ said, “here’s your change,” and then will Harry stumble away, embarrassed and knocking his lanky limbs into the Pick ‘n’ Mix units next to the queue line.

It’s adorable.

Another time he caught Harry having a full-blown conversation with a trail of cats on their road, showing them an open book as the cats curiously sniffed at the doodles on the pages and verbalised their interest in the form of high-pitched meows.

Harry seemed to be having a very nice time. As did the cats.

The only other thing Louis knows about Harry is he seems to have a diverse music taste. He can hear all the music Harry plays through the wall, seeing as his bedroom is directly opposite his. He plays a lot of The Rolling Stones. Sometimes Travis, Fleetwood Mac, Queen, 4 Non-Blondes, Bjork. And one time he was _definitely_ listening to The Spice Girls and that new singer Britney Spears. And he seems to have an obsession with Lisa Loeb’s ‘Stay’. Also, Savage Garden. (Which, Louis can’t knock it. He loves a bit of ‘Truly, Madly, Deeply’.)

(Yeah, he's invested in what travels through their paper thin walls. He knows when Harry so much as sneezes.)

And okay, he’s rambling here, but Louis’ always thought that knowing what music someone listens to is kind of like peering into a gap that’s ajar in someone’s soul. Exposing, if he's getting deep here. So, because of that, maybe Louis feels a bit like he knows the sort of person Harry is. When he’s not got a blank, pouty look on his face and not running for the hills whenever he’s inadvertently met Louis’ eyes, that is. Well. No. That was only once, but Louis was extremely put-out by it. He’d only wanted to ask him to a party. (Which he ended up being at too, anyway.)

The point is, Harry does seem to be nice. With his bashful, reddened smiles and cat whispering and honking laugh that he produces around his friends. And, you know, the boy is very cute. Very pretty. Not hard to look at all.

And Louis would very much love to know him, befriend him, snog his face off, maybe?

But there’s an underlying edge to Harry that bothers Louis a bit, a simmering sadness behind that otherwise glittering smile that makes him want to talk to him, get into his head, help in some way.

He wouldn’t be surprised if Harry’s parents are on the verge of a divorce, if they’re not in the process of getting one already. They hardly look at each other from what Louis has seen. It's like they're strangers.

And there might be a bit more worry than usual as of late on Louis’ part. He spotted Harry crying in his back garden a few weeks back. It was raining. A grey Sunday afternoon that was a much-needed break from the mostly sweltering sunny days they’d had so far in July. He was wearing a yellow raincoat as well. A  _raincoat._  Like, as if he’d specifically put on a raincoat for no other reason than to stand outside alone in his garden, the sole purpose being that he wanted to have an unabashed cry.

God, maybe he thought the wind and thunder would drown out his sobs? How fucking sad is that?

(Jesus. It makes Louis’ chest tighten.)

But of course, because Louis was staring, transfixed at his window for so long, Harry ended up catching him looking and jumped up in fright, like he’d sat on a fucking fire, hurriedly striding back inside. Louis does feel guilty about that. Watching someone let out all of their vulnerabilities in what they think is in private isn't the best. Louis had wanted to ask Harry if he needed talk anyone, to someone that wasn’t one of his friends because it maybe then it might be easier?

But Harry was already on his bike and out of earshot before Louis could actually try the next morning, stood watching him ride off with an inexplicable ache in his chest for someone who he didn’t really know, but who was so obviously having a tough time.

You could say that Louis is woefully, pathetically into this boy. (He's actively trying to rein it in.)

Now Louis is staring incredulously at the other boy; he’s got one hand unsteadily gripping onto the window ledge, too busy squinting his eyes and batting the netted curtains away from his head to notice Louis, his feet scrambling for purchase against the drainpipe situated between their bedrooms, the street stone-silent around them, the sky a chalky, dark navy and the clouds obscure half the moon, back-lit by a bright hazy glow.

Louis pokes his upper body out of his window to get a better look at this ridiculous boy who’s somehow under the impression that it’s  _a good_   _idea_  to risk breaking both his legs instead of using the front door like a reasonable person.

“Mate, are you seriously climbing down the drainpipe?” Louis whisper-shouts.

Harry jolts instantly at  _mate,_  snapping his head up and very nearly losing his footing and slipping entirely in the process, his pink Converse high-tops scrambling to grip the concrete wall of their adjoined houses.

Excellent. That’s another thing Louis really needs. A teen’s untimely demise on his conscience. Wonderful.

“Fuck,” Harry hisses, sending a lethal glare Louis’ way when he looks back up from his feet. It’s a bloody terrifying thing to look at, to be honest, let alone be on the receiving end of. "Did you _have_  to?"

Even when Harry is currently wearing snug, dark blue denim  _dungarees._

“Whoa! Jesus, alright, calm down. Sorry, mate. I wasn’t  _trying_  to kill you.” Louis holds his hands up in surrender. “But, uh, is there a specific  _reason_  you’re dangling yourself from a drainpipe or do I need to call somebody?”

"God, I'm not trying to do anything stupid, so don't worry yourself," Harry sighs, rolling his eyes.

And excuse me? Does this kid have an attitude problem or what? He's wearing dungarees for fuck's sake. He’s in no position to talk to Louis like this.

“Er? Attitude, young man,” Louis mocks, scoffing. “I didn’t know you had this in you. You’re normally either completely mute, face red or Mr Creepy Stare-y Pants.”

Harry’s face contorts into a bothered, sheepish expression, cheeks reddening even in the dark. He opens his mouth to say something and then closes it, deciding against it apparently.

Louis wants him to say something else, anything.

Because, like, Harry is wearing goddamn dungarees, and his hair is sleek and so curly. It looks soft. It looks like a very appealing soft, curly mess on his head. He’s decidedly adorable, so really. And so the too-big, black leather jacket he’s thrown over said dungarees? It does absolutely nothing to make it the ensemble less cute in Louis’ opinion, and not with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the collections of prettily beaded, string collection of coloured bracelets either. Not that there's anything wrong with them. It's just they're more, uh,  _cute_ rather than fashionable. All mis-matched and endearing.

They seem to be a staple of Harry’s, though. The dungarees. And yes, Louis is very aware he can’t stop focusing on the bloody things since he sees Harry wearing them more often than not. Someone’s definitely been watching a lot of _The Fresh Prince_   _of Bel Air_. That, or he’s taking fashion tips from Rachel in  _Friends._  Which if he is, that is… actually really fucking cute as well, to be quite honest. It’s just kind of funny that Harry’s soft, creamy, unblemished baby-face and his head of unruly brown curls cancels out his  _edgy_ accessory. 

Louis grins, about to make one of his sarcastic comments about as much until he notices the light of his room catching Harry’s, showing up the wetness on his cheeks, the glossy sheen of his green, red-rimmed eyes.

Oh.

"Hey, are you alright?"

Harry takes a long moment to answer.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He sniffles. “I’m Spiderman and the neighbourhood needs me,” he deadpans, keeping any emotion carefully out of his deep voice. He shifts his weight and lowers his lanky body further down the pipe. His hands are stretched taut around it and Louis winces. “So, if you don’t mind?” he continues blandly.

Louis finds himself grinning a bit, trying to stifle a laugh. “Oh, _really_? A fan, are we?”

Harry looks up at him with a mild expression of horror. His eyes flash with a spark of recognition, Louis thinks. He clears his throat. “Uh. No.”

“No?”

“Superman is obviously the superior comic hero.”

Louis lifts an offended brow. Harry’s stating this as fact. He’s sure his mouth is gaping.

“It’s much more fascinating to read about an alien outsider left on this strange, unforgiving planet, gifted with super strength and non-human abilities that he has to work hard to keep hidden from the world, isolated and alone, or else end up being experimented on and poked and prodded around, don’t you think?”

“ _Superman_?” is all Louis says, distaste colouring his tone. “With the spandex!”

“Spiderman wears spandex.”

“Shit,” Louis mutters. Shot himself in the foot with that one.

“What’s wrong with Superman, anyway?” Harry shoots back, nose wrinkled. His tone is whiny and disgruntled. Why are they even debating this? He’s hanging out of his fucking window, for god’s sake. There’s spades and forks and all sorts just underneath him. “Spiderman just swings around with gross stickiness shooting out of his wrists. That’s just… weird.”

“Oh, weird, right? Yeah. Says you,” Louis scoffs, gesturing to his current position. "You're the one more like Spiderman right now, Harry."

God, why are they even talking about this?

Harry frowns. “How do you know my name?” he challenges, though he looks ridiculous as he clings to the drainpipe for dear life.

“Oh, uh,” Louis stammers, like he’s been caught. “Well. Everyone calls you that”ꟷLouis wraps his palm around the back of his neckꟷ“so, I obviously assumed Harry was your name.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

Louis clears his throat.

“Anyway, I’m Louis.”

“I know.” Harry nods. A pause. “Well! I mean, yeah. I know that already. You know, fromꟷfrom your, you know. Uh.” He briefly squeezes his eyes shut, grimacing. “Your badge at the cinema has your name on it,” he rushes out. “So.”

“That’s right, it does. You noticed,” he teases.

Harry drops his head.

Silence.

“Okay! Excellent,” Louis claps, immediately flinching at the echoing noise it makes. Harry glares at him. “Fuck,” he whispers. “Forgot.”

And then Harry smirks slightly, smiles even. It’s tiny, really. But it’s visible, a quirk in the corner of his full, practically heart-shaped mouth. Wow. Louis tries his hardest not to stare at it.

“So, obviously you don’t really know me, and so feel free to tell me to get lost, but I notice you’re not a fan of using the front door?”

Harry shifts his position again, jaw clenching and brows furrowing as he tangles his legs around the pipe, hands taut by how tightly he’s holding on as he shifts position. Louis grimaces; he’s got half a mind to just go downstairs and get him a ladder. But that might make too much noise at this hour, and clearly Harry climbed out of his window for a good reason. Not just because he felt like it, probably.

“Okay. That’s fine. So, this isn’t just a case of you sneaking out to drink vodka in the park, I take it.”

Harry shakes his head in response, eyes darting around at everything but Louis. "It's complicated."

Louis waits for him to expand, gaze fixed on the other boy; it takes only a second for Harry to relent, sighing shakily.

“My mum is still up and sitting in the living room and the front door’s right there," he mumbles. "But to be fair, she’s probably asleep by now, but I can’t risk waking her. Trust me, you really don’t want to be an accessory in this. She could make your life hell.”

“Christ, is she that bad?”

"When she finds out what I've done, she will be."

"What did you do?"

Harry quiets.

"Sorry, none of my business." Louis frowns, noting the way Harry seems to be tensing up his shoulders, clearly uncomfortable.

Harry glances at Louis, expression guarded. “It’s just… better for everyone if I go,” he says quietly.

“Is it?” Louis asks gently.

“I’ve made a mess," Harry stresses, features crumpling. "Like, a really _, really_ big mess of things. I did something I had no business evenꟷ” Harry stops, eyeing him warily, before his face falls into openness, the moonlight catching his right side, washing his fringe in grey, silver. His eyes flash, like a light bulb flickering. They glow. And Louis blinks rapidly.

A clear set of green eyes stare back at him. Louis blinks again, shaking his head. Maybe he needs more sleep.

Harry looks down.

“I’ve got no idea why I’m telling you any of this."

Louis smiles. At least he's got him talking. "Well, maybe you just needed someone to talk to." He pauses. "I know we don't really know each other, but I would have been available anytime, you know. I'm just next door, by the way,” he jokes.

Harry sniffs wetly, another trail of tears slipping past the beds of his eyes. He purses his lips and then blows a shuddering breath through them.

And  _god_ , Louis’ chest is actually clenching. With alarm and worry and  _shit._ Because he  _knows_. He hears how loud they all yell next door when they’re arguing. And now Harry’s here, alone and trying to escape from it all and he looks so small and lost and  _young._

“Oh, hey, come on,” he says sadly. “What’s really wrong?”

Harry shakes his head again, lowering himself as he sniffles. “I did something, and I need to fix it," he whispers. "I have to sort it as soon as possible. My mum can't know..." Harry's mouth contorts, face beginning to crumple again.

And nope. Louis’ got to help him somehow. And he gets it. He understands. If he’s roughly correct about the reasons why Harry is so absolutely desperate to get out of there.

“Okay, look. Hang on.” Harry gives him an unimpressed look. “Okay, stupid choice of words, but I’m gonna go downstairs and climb over to your garden, okay?”

“Why?” Harry frowns, dragging the word out distrustfully. 

“Just. Wait, okay?”

Harry’s practically glowering, pale skin swept under the moonlight and the lamp coming from Louis’ bedroom window, confused as he continues to watch Louis. “This isn’t a trick, is it? You’re not gonna get my mum, are you?”

“Why, would you rather a treat?” Louis winks.

Harry stares.

Louis wants to punch himself in the face _. Treat?_ God.

“No, no! I’mꟷI’m gonna help you, okay? Justꟷ Stay there.”

He leaves the window and dashes down the stairs to the garden doors, unlocking the door and then squinting as he contemplates the best way to climb over the fence. He pushes a chair in front of the rose bushes and steps on it, lifting himself up and swinging his legs over. He jumps onto the lawn and looks up at Harry, who’s more than halfway to the ground now, his rucksack nearly falling off his shoulder. Louis stands almost directly under Harry to, well, catch him?

“Look, um, I don’t mean to sound rude,” Harry says, voice a bit more strained with underlying frustration as he continues to shimmy down the drainpipe. Louis may be making him slightly more agitated. Oops, “but I really need to get out of here, okay? And no offence, you seem nice and everything but you’re kind of slowing me down?”

“Is that a question?”

Harry huffs out a frustrated breath, sending Louis a sideways glance. Louis smiles, amusement thrumming underneath his skin.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. I’m kind of being rude right now, aren’t I?”

“Nah.” Louis grins. “Only a bit.”

Harry averts his eyes and ducks his head, smirking.

Louis grins wider.

"So, what's the plan? You're gonna run away? Is that really the best option?"

Harry drops his rucksack onto the grass with a thump, and then suddenly he’s jumping after it and clumsily landing on his hands and knees.

"Oh, I was gonna, like, help you down," Louis says, glancing around. He watches as Harry peers up at his window and Louis notices again how his eyes are strikingly green, almost otherworldly, his expression otherwise defiant if it wasn't for his wet, rosy cheeks. Louis has the overwhelming urge to just hug him.

“Looks like it,” Harry shrugs. He sniffs, attempting to discreetly wipe his nose with the sleeve of his jacket. "Besides, she probably won’t even notice I’m gone for at least a day and I'd rather try and sort this before she finds out. There's someone I need to see. She can help. And... she's kinda tied to the mess I made anyway.”

Harry looks forlorn.

A tight knot of sympathy squeezes Louis' chest. "Okay. Well, do you have money, at least? If you're planning on doing this trip by yourself?"

Harry nods slowly. "Been saving my wages from the café."

Louis hums, watching the other boy carefully. He does have the van and a newly obtained driver's licence. And if Harry has enough to split the petrol moneyꟷ "Okay." He pauses. "Fancy a ride, Mr Teenage Runaway?”

He has no idea why he just blurted that out, just knows he’s consumed by this overwhelming need to fix  _something_  for Harry, anything, even something as simple as driving him to his preferred destination.

“What?” Harry says after a long, surprised beat, voice slightly incredulous. “You’re offering to drive me? Where?”

“Well, anywhere you need to go. I have a van,” Louis answers in lieu of an actual explanation or any reasoning whatsoever. "A campervan, really. It's orange. 70's vintage."

Louis has no idea _what_ he's getting himself into, and yeah, this could be a disaster, but if it helps Harry, and he really seems like he's desperate for the help, then Louis thinks it's worth whatever comes next.

(God help him if he lives to regret this. He's no idea what Harry's done but his mum does seem scary when she's angry.)

“O- _kay_?”

Louis is highly amused by Harry’s scepticism. The boy seems highly suspicious. He watches Harry keep his eyes on Louis with furrowed brows that frame his forehead, fringe brushed over it, fluffy like chocolate mousse, as he bends down to retrieve the thick strap of his bag.

“But... why?" Harry locks his eyes with Louis'. Serious. Searching.

"Why?" Louis repeats.

"Why would you offer? You don’t even know me. We’re not, likeꟷwe’re not even friends?”

“Yeah, well,” Louis shrugs, “we could be, right?”

Harry’s owlish eyes stare at him.

“Maybe I just want to. It’s not a big deal. Not like I have anything else to do this summer. I’m on break from my shifts at the pub and I don’t have a lot else to do. It's fine, Harry. It's no trouble.”

Harry exhales, wiping a hand over his face. He looks around sheepishly, skittish. “But." He tilts his head curiously. “Don’t you have friends to hang out with?”

“Nah, I’m not really… I’m not up for a lot of that right now. We’re not reallyꟷthere’s a lot of shit going on and I’m not rising to the bait, that’s all. I’m sure Niall would miss me and my amazing cuddles, but that’s about it.”

Harry makes a dubious face, mouth curling into a disbelieving laugh. “I’m not sure I quite believe that.”

Louis gasps dramatically. “See if you ever experience my famous cuddles now.” 

“No, that’s notꟷ” Harry bites on his lip, shakes his head. “I mean, you seem so popular. How can you be low on mates?”

“You seem pretty popular around here too,” he counters. “Won’t anyone be missing you or wondering where you are? Why you’ve just upped and left without a word? How long are you planning on disappearing to sort out this mess of yours?”

Harry visibly swallows, shifting awkwardly on the dewy grass. "I dunno."

"Are you coming back even?" Louis wonders.

Harry stays quiet.

"Well. It's entirely up to you, Curly," he says gently. "I was looking for an excuse to drive it, anyway. It's fine."

Harry worries his lip, practically gnawing it off at this rate. He peers over the fence into his own garden, apprehensive.

"Are you seriously offering?" he asks slowly after what feels like the longest pause ever.

"Yes, I am seriously offering. Though, we'd have to split the petrol cost, yeah? Is that, is that okay?"

"Oh, yeah, yeah! Of course," Harry affirms eagerly. "Um. But can we still leave tonight? Or did you want to wait until morning?" His tone is polite, but the strained shake in his voice says he definitely wants to get going sooner rather than later, so it looks like Louis is going to do exactly as he wants.

"Nah, we can go tonight, if that's what you want?"

Harry nods. "Yeah. I do.”

"Alright. That's settled. We're going on a little road trip." He thrusts his fist into the air slowly, pointing it close to his chest and he says a quiet, "yay."

Harry's nose scrunches in what Louis hopes is amusement, tipping his head towards the sky and shaking his head a little.

"Yeah? Is that a yes? I promise I don't bite."

Harry nods around a smile. A real one. There's even a hint of dimples. Louis' poor heart soars, his belly flutters.

"Okay, then. Come on." He watches for a moment as Harry's smile slips, shucks his rucksack higher on his shoulder, teeth sunken into his bottom lip.

"Uh. Where?" That deer in headlights look is back again. 

"Inside?" Louis chuckles, pointing his thumb behind himself. "I need to get some things. Like, you know, car keys for one thing. Also, my wallet. That may help us too?" Louis grins at Harry's kind of bemused face. He looks dazed. And he's staring at Louis' mouth, sending Louis' stomach spiralling into a party for a herd of butterflies. 

Louis clears his throat and turns toward the back door, gesturing blindly for Harry to follow him inside, pushing the wooden door open. He can hear the grass crunch as Harry does, smiles to himself and counts it as a win, even if the other boy is now frowning deeply as he traipses behind him (honestly, this boy is giving him whiplash), his steps somewhat cautious and hesitant when he turns back to look at him, troubled eyes apparently on the ground as he slips inside the outer building to the kitchen after Louis.

He's just about to ask him what's on his mind when Louis follows his gaze to the floor.

There’s a lilac rose lying at Louis’ feet, like it's been ripped away from its stem, much like the rose bush from Harry's front garden. He looks up to see Harry’ eyes widen comically and then he's scrambling down to pick up the rose head and stuffs it frantically into his rucksack like his life depends on it, his breathing suddenly ragged.

Okay. 

Louis will pretend he didn’t notice that bizarre display, but then he catches a glimpse of Harry transferring a small, oddly-shaped bottle of dark liquid from his rucksack and then slide it into his dungaree pocket. It looks like a vial, a medieval vial with one of those stoppers on a string.

Louis gapes, bemused.

Harry must feel Louis’ gaze on him because his head jerks up, eyes wide, frozen, as though he's been caught out.

“You alright?” Louis asks nonchalantly, despite his mind whirring with a million questions, all of which Louis has no idea what to make of.

“Fine,” Harry replies too quickly.

“Sure?"

There's a twisted, sort of barely-there smile surfacing on Harry's mouth that certainly doesn’t reach his eyes as he nods, hurriedly going on ahead when Louis gestures for him to walk through first.

This night just got a lot weirder.


	2. ii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this was supposed to be posted much earlier than today but I infuriatingly ended up losing all corrections I made to this chapter and had to rewrite it but hopefully this is better than what I had before. *insert eyeroll*

 

It’s still unpleasantly muggy out, but thankfully, there’s finally a hint of a cool breeze rustling gently through the trees, rousing movement within the lush green leaves settled around the garden, bordered by a collection of small-sized, white-stone animal figures and little clay, animated gnomes, each with different coloured hats.

They’ve freaked Louis out ever since his mum brought them home, sitting huddled together in the dark, clustered among the trimmed hedges and bushes entwined with the flowered shrubs and his mother’s marigolds, peonies and wildflowers that weave through the branches, or sit in their flowerbeds and pots. Even spouting up in scattered jam jars. (Louis’ mum has clearly been chatting about gardening with Harry’s mum, having mysteriously become engrossed in filling the space with every kind of plant known to man since the Styles’ arrived.)

Louis takes a long glance over his shoulder, eyes falling on one particularly sinister garden gnome with a dark red hat that his mum insisted on buying, its beady eyes judging Louis as he follows after Harry, hair gently ruffled by the faint breeze as they step into the damp, faintly smokey alley and Louis shuts the door behind him, skin prickling with the feeling of being watched.

Everything just feels really bloody weird and unsettling all of a sudden, the garden bathed in dim blue light, casting the plants and pottery in murky shadows, the oddly distinct smell of lavender filling the inside of Louis’ nose.

Louis screws up his face, nose wrinkling at the overpowering scent. They don’t even have bloody lavender plants. That stuff is only growing inꟷ

Harry’s mum’s front garden.

Right.

So, look. Louis likes to think he's an open-minded, approachable fella. He is. He's always willing to learn about new things, meet different people, is up for considering unfamiliar concepts he hasn’t before without any bias, prides himself on those qualities, even. If someone came to him with an idea that was particularly out there, he'd respectfully nod along and offer up his own suggestions with enthusiasm.

And apparently, someone thought it was a good idea he be tested on these qualities with Harry’s strange behaviour. Well.  _Stranger_. Because he’s rather eccentric anyway, but what the hell was that just now?

(Harry was seemingly about to have a stroke over the sight of a _flower_ lying on the ground?)

The atmosphere has changed drastically now that the idea of Harry having slightly disconcerting interests has been planted in Louis’ paranoid thoughts. There's a starkly uncomfortable awkwardness that’s hovering in the heady air between them, standing out like an oddly-placed, unrelated object randomly put in the centre of a pristinely set dinner table. And the sky overhead is a lighter blue, paving the way for dawn, no longer a chalky indigo canvas harbouring the moon before the sun takes over and lets the moon sleep for another day.

Not that that’s not normal and like any other day, obviously.

It’s just.

Something’s changed. And it’s a weird change, an indescribable feeling that has Louis’ mind whirring with all sorts of nonsensical possibilities and theories about Harry. 

But that's not all that's weirdꟷLouis jabbering on about silly metaphors. No, what's weird is the kind of reason Louis’ thinking about that could have elicited such a bizarre reaction from Harry, startling him like a frisky cat been crept up on, all over seeing a  _flower_  lying on the ground as far as Louis can tell? (Louis’ seen far too many scary movies.)

There’s also the nightmares that have plagued his dreaming recently that may be the explanation for Louis feeling so on edge, and maybe even a bit scared right now. (Which is plain ridiculous but that’s where Louis is at.)

Harry'd gaped at Louis just now, his eyes huge and round from shock, paler than is he already, as though the blood had been drained from his face. And that's not even counting the second thing that has Louis frowning deeply.

“What was that just then?” Louis blurts out, but purposely keeping his voice soft as the street around them is quiet; it’s still so early and it’s eerie, like the distant feeling Louis gets from reading about some fantasy world, the moments before the clock strikes midnight, indicating the witching hour has begun.

But that’s stupid. None of that is real.

Louis shudders from an unexpected gust of cold air. Even weirder when it’s stupid degrees out still.

So Louis might be starting to panic. And he doesn’t even have a clue what for or why he’s panicking. Not really.

Louis feels a bit muddled right now. He bites back a whimper and the urge to whine.

Harry halts his steps and turns halfway to show Louis the side of his face, back lit from the approaching daylight and pale skin awash in a blue glow.

“What was what?” he answers just as quietly, offhandedly.

“You just put something away in your pocket. Was wondering what it was,” Louis shrugs, a small, hopefully casual smile curving his lips.

Harry looks at him blankly, stays very still, and very, very quiet. If it was lighter out and Harry’s skin wasn’t reflected with blue, then Louis would swear Harry is flushing dark red. “Um.”

“Oh, if it’s private, you don’t have to tell me,” Louis quickly jumps in, silently stamping down on the urge to know what Harry was so eager to transfer from his bag without Louis seeing. “Sorry. ‘M so nosy.”

Harry smiles, close-lipped and clearly forced. “Uh. It is, actually. Private. Thanks.”

He swivels back around and resumes his paces.

Louis’ brows knit further, eyes trained on the back of Harry’s head, his head of glossy, chocolate-drenched curls that faintly bounce as he strides down the alley by Louis' instruction, mind still whirring with all sorts of morbid thoughts and disturbing possibilities.

None of it correlates with what he’s thought and seen of Harry so far, but. Who the fuck keeps a medieval _vial_  of all things, especially one shaped like  _that_  on them? A sinister claw clasped around the glass. One that seemingly contains something very dark and unidentifiable which is, quite honestly, _concerning._

Just what is Louis supposed to make of that?

And now there’s the image of a witch’s battered, conspicuous-looking cabin in the woods flashing in Louis’ mind, like something straight off the pages of a dark, Grimm fairytale, in which Louis can clearly imagine that vial being on a dusty, chaotically messy shelf with hundreds of other vials and bottles and potions situated together. Harry's vial had a swirly, intricate design in the glass of the miniature bottle, of what looked like a mythical creature’s  _claw_. That's what Harry is carrying around in his rucksack of who-knows-what other weird shit he carries in there?

And just what the hell _is_ in there?

Is Louis not allowed to be creeped-out by an old, magical-looking, scary vial? It looked practically ancient. And one that Louis’ quite sure has eerily featured in his dreams, his  _nightmares_ , which only adds to Louis' mounting concern and doesn’t bode well at all in Louis’ book.

But, okay. Hang on. Let’s dial this down a bit. Maybe Louis is just jumping to conclusions. Yeah. He doesn’t even know what conclusions those even are. But this is fine. This is all completely normal. There’s nothing to be worried about.

Nothing.

“Keep going, mate," he forces out. 

Harry plods onward.

Louis squints harder.

“Careful, there’s a bin there,” he helpfully points out at the same time as Harry yelps, bumping his solid chest into the grubby dustbin that’s pressed against the brick wall, lid askew and pushed out too far into the narrow alleyway, strands of grass and dandelion leaves poking out between the bumpy concrete slates on the ground.

Louis moves it back as he passes, huffing in annoyance, uncertainty setting in. It’s just a short path round the side of the houseꟷit takes mere secondsꟷand yet Louis feels like this walk is taking for-fucking-ever, mind stuck on wondering what on earth Harry keeps in that rucksack of his. Because unless Harry has fictional classes to get to at Hogwarts, Louis dreads to think what’s in that bottle. It was too dark and quick to see properly but in a split-second, but the liquid definitely didn’t look light in colour. It was dark. Oh, my god. What if it _was_   _blood_? This kid keeps a vial of blood on him? And for why? Like keeping blood in a vial isn't highly suspicious and worrying behaviour?

Anyone would think that, wouldn’t they? Louis might be paranoid about this, yeah, but it’s odd and it’s proper weird, at the very least, and now Louis’ thoughts have gone into overdrive, and he’s suddenly very anxious about whatever it is that Harry has supposedly “made a mess” of.

God, is it illegal? Has Louis just offered to drive a young evil mastermind across the country? Alone?

(Oh, please, let this all be a misunderstanding.)

Why is Harry so desperate to get away so quickly, though? Why is he frantic about his mother not realising he’s gone until he is? And here Louis was thinking it was about hisꟷ  _Oh, please, god, don’t be into some weird vampire cult where they drink each other’s blood for a breakfast shake,_ Louis thinks hysterically, threading his fingers through his hair and tugging hard, scrunching the strands between his clammy fingers.

But, wait, wait! He should weigh this out. Be reasonable here. There’s surely got to be an innocent explanation for what Louis saw. There must be. Louis often gets dramatic first and thinks later. So. It’s fine. He’ll just ask him. It’s probably just a toy or something. Yeah. A  _toy_  that an  _eighteen year-old_  is still into. Oh, god. Does Harry even have a younger sibling? As far as Louis is aware, he doesn't.

“Yeah, that door there down there. Leads into the kitchen,” Louis says, gesturing to where the warm light is filtering through the gaps of the door on the right-hand side that leads into the house. “It’s where we hold our monthly coven meetings, of course.”

Harry slows his steps, stilling as he peers over his shoulder, green eyes ringed with terror, really.

It was a joke. Yet Harry looks incredibly guilty, jerking his head back around and steps towards the back door.

So evidently Harry’s become the walking personification of the word  _dodgy_. Brilliant. That only makes Louis warier, the urge to blurt out “ _you don’t take_ Buffy  _literally, do you?”_   and " _are you the vampire or vampire hunter in this scenario?_ " stuck to the tip of his tongue like an itch he’s dying to scratch.

Maybe he knows Anna? Maybe the two of them and their mothers grow herbs and plants together in their gardens and swap on scheduled days of the week and sip tea and crunch on Bourbon biscuits and have inside jokes and they all have a grand old time.

(Alright, perhaps Louis’ a bit jealous of the idea, even if he seriously might be about to discover Harry’s plan to have him murdered.)

He manages to trade his scowl for a cursory smile.

Harry smiles too widely back at Louis, radiating awkwardness as he waits at the door, the kitchen light’s amber hue shining under the doorstep and highlighting Harry’s Chucks.

Louis suppresses the urge to frown, but his eyes beg to stay intently fixed on the slightly protruding shape of that ridiculous vial stuffed into the side pocket of Harry’s dungarees, the hem of his black leather jacket only just covering its bulky shape.

He stops next to him, reaching for the bronze handle fixed to the burgundy painted door, the wood a bit chipped at the bottom and wearing away. Harry shifts, clinging to his heavy rucksack like a lifeline, the small, mismatched collection of his little glittery and multi-coloured pins and badges attached to the front of his bag glint brightly. And he looks so cute and unassuming and it just doesn’t line up with the other suspicions Louis has just had of him in less than thirty seconds, does it?

Because Harry looks so young and expectant and endearing standing here in front of him, silhouette haloed by the fast-approaching sunrise with inwardly-pointed feet, skin creamy and pale like the face of a doll, even with the smattering of spots coming up by his jawline, soft wispy curls catching on his delicately long eyelashes as he takes long, slow blinks, and without meaning to, or wanting to, even, Louis softens significantly, chest warming with affection he can’t help but latch onto.

Something intoxicating flickers over Harry’s face as he earnestly meets Louis’ gaze, those emerald irises boring into Louis’ and he forgets for a moment, forgets all the madness he was just thinking until abruptly, Louis’ heart inexplicably begins to thump in time too quickly,  _far_ too quickly for his body, practically hammering at his ribs violently and,  _ow,_  fuck, this is starting to actually  _hurt._

With his hand clutched onto the door handle, sweat beads at his hairline, white-hot light flattening itself against the backs of Louis’ eyelids, andꟷoh no. He blinks rapidly like he can’t help it, crushing pressure bearing down on either side of his head. Nausea rises high in his throat and his eyes are still fixed to Harry’s face, whose soft skin is pinched severely between his brows as he stares in alarm.

Louis blinks, and blinks, and blinks, and Harry’s eyes are blindingly green, green, green.

And then.

They’re not green at _all_.

In a surreal instant, Harry’s eyes flash a brilliant violet, irises ringed with shimmering gold.

Louis catches his breath.

_Violet._

_Lilac._

_Roses._

_Violet, lilac, lavender, mauve, purple roses. Every shade. They’re everywhere. Countless, endless delicate petals, the stems all missing, the flowers fully blossomed. Thornless rose heads cover the ground like snow, not a nook or space between them. A sea of boundless lilac amongst the surrounding darkened trees._

_And red._

_A single drop of blood splashes against one of the smooth, silky petals at Louis’ bare feet, smearing and spoiling the otherwise dreamlike and enchanting and stunningly beautiful sight before him._

_He looks up toward the chalky indigo night, the moon crescent-shaped, stark silver and mesmerising against the sky, looming and bold and all-knowing._

“ _Louis_?”  _someone pleads._

_And then he looks down at his feet._

_The lilac roses bleed red._

“Louis?”

Louis gasps sharply, choking on air as Harry’s voice brings him out of the apparently dazed stupor he was under for who knows how long.

Harry sounded like he’d been repeatedly saying his name to get his attention, wide eyes looking him over frantically. Louis glances down at his feet, relieved. He’s wearing a pair of Nikes. 

 _There’s no blood._  Louis takes a shaky breath.  _No lilac roses either_ , he thinks ridiculously.  _You’re here._  Who’d have thought a shade of purple could suddenly scare him out of his bloody wits?

Bloody. Blood. The vial. Oh, god. Louis’ head hurts.

“Louis?” Harry says again, worry and trepidation evident in the low timbre of his voice. It makes Louis weak, if he’s being honest. “Are you okay? You kind of went somewhere.” His eyes are full of concern, the shine and glaze of them holding Louis captivated. Giddy.

_‘You kind of went somewhere’._

Yeah, he went somewhere, alright. Louis’ mind feels fuzzy, clogged with something thick and stagnant; it feels like his head is suddenly too heavy to balance atop his neck, and he’s got one hand still gripping onto the backdoor’s handle hard enough that the blood has rushed to the surface of his skin and the other isꟷ

His other hand is currently being held by Harry. His long, pale fingers are cold to touch, almost freezing in the humid, very early morning air, and they’re steadying, assuredly grasping Louis’ fingers between his, their palms flatly pressing against each other.

Louis gazes down at their hands, transfixed.

Harry’s fingers may be cold, but Louis’ hand strangely still feels warm, tingly, as though there’s minuscule shots and jolts of scorching energy sparking their skin alight. It should hurt, but it doesn’t, doesn’t prickle like the sensation of pins and needles would do, like this sensation kind of feels like it is.

No. It feels  _good_.

Exhilarating, like he’s been guzzling a dozen glasses of something fizzy, fizzy with alcohol. Bubbles. That’s what it feels like. Holding Harry's hand feels like how champagne tastes.

And it doesn’t make sense. A curious assemblage of contradictions that sends shivers down Louis’ back, trembling throughout his whole body.

“Louis?” Harry says again, and the way he says his name, it’s… doing things to his insides, legs unsteady. Familiar. Safe. _Heady_.

And that’s such a stark contrast to the too many conflicting emotions he’s felt in the last five minutes that Louis instinctively, hastily snatches his hand away, nerves on fire. Finally, he looks at Harry, who appears to be just as startled and bewildered as he is. Their eyes lock.

It makes Louis frownꟷHarry’s open face which houses his huge, round eyes, staring in fascination as they look back at, _into_ Louis’ own.

Louis swallows thickly, lurching back to life.

“I’m thirsty,” he says hoarsely. “Want a drink?” It takes some doing but he manages to rip his gaze away from Harry, feeling a bit groggy and sick, like he’s coming down from some kind of powerful high, his extreme mood speedily deflating into something flat and dull. He turns to take the step into the kitchen, knowing Harry will follow.

"Uh, no. I'm fine, thank you," he hears Harry politely decline.

They walk into the kitchen and Louis locks the back door behind Harry as he enters watchfully, curiously looking around. His gaze pauses at the glass roof of the conservatory, the section at the dining table where Harry’s bedroom window is clearly visible. He darts his eyes over to Louis.

Louis flushes, wandering over to the door, focusing on the urge to double-check, then triple-check that the door is actually locked, starkly alert from the unnerving weight of Harry’s eyes on his back, can hear the solid sound of his breathing loudly in his ears, and then he turns back to face him, painfully aware that it’s just the two of them are standing in Louis’ kitchen. Alone.

No one else is home.

Somehow, that’s suddenly become a terrifying prospect.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, ignoring Harry’s presence for a few moments, raking both of his hands nervously through his hair, causing it to stand on end like a mad scientist in a cartoon. Because something just fucking happened when Harry _touched_  him, didn’t it? When he touched, no,  _held_  Louis’ hand, and it wasn’t…

What even was it?

What the hell is going on? Because everything _seems_  to be normal at first glance. Everything around them is as it should be. The street is outside, just as always, is quiet at this time, everyone either fast asleep or having to get up at stupid o’clock for work. It’s still, calm, and yet for some reason, Louis can’t shake off this eerie, ominous feeling that something isn’t quite right.

Louis scans the kitchen; all the appliances are switched off and only one of the lights is on, saturating the room in a dim amber glow, clean and still fresh from the disinfectant spray his mum used to wipe the surfaces with before she left with Amy for the airport, hugging Louis tight and making him promise again to not let the house become a hot spot for summer parties. He distantly wonders if they checked into their hotel okay, if Amy settled down on the flight this time, now that’s she’s another year older, and he's hit with a tight clench around his heart. His pulse is still too fast.

Meanwhile, Louis’ here with Harry, his face painted in shadows, the green of his eyes still unsettling Louis greatly, and he’s not sure if that’s even a good thing now. The mood has drastically changed and both of them know it. It’s like they aren’t completely human, Harry’s eyes; they’re otherworldly, ethereal, in the same way they looked earlier, shining radiantly in the path of the moonlight. Like they were connected somehow. Harry and the moon.

Suddenly Louis feels cold dread creep up his spine, chest tight and throat dry, disconcerted by that blackout he just had while otherwise standing wide awake. That’s never happened before. Those visionsꟷnightmares, whatever they bloody areꟷonly happen when he’s asleep. Because so far, they’ve been nightmares.

Just nightmares.

But why was Harry so spooked to see a rose on the floor? And why the hell would he stuff it in his rucksack if it’s from his own mother’s rose bushes? Why would he look so panicked? What in the fuck was in that vial of liquid?  _Blood_?

“Harry?”

“Yeah,” Harry replies quietly.

Then he remembers the way Harry’s eyes absolutely changed from green to violet or purple. A colour that was decidedly very  _not_  green.

And yeah, that’s… new. So either Louis needs to see somebody or there’s something extremely bizarre going on with this boy. Shit. He’s going to poison him, isn’t he? What if that’s it? Harry’s going to slip Louis whatever is in that thing that looks like he bought it from the London Dungeon gift shop and drug him.

Louis can’t hold it in. He has to know.

“What was that?” he says, tone accusatory. 

Harry looks up from his stiff standing position by the sink, hand clenched tightly in a fist around his bag strap perched on his small shoulder. A lock of his fringe slips into his eyes and he pushes it back across his forehead with careful fingers running though the knots. There’s a small tremor in his hand as he flips his head a bit to shake out his hair. A nervous habit, perhaps? What kind of thing does this kid have to be nervous about is Louis’ question, one of fucking many.

“What?” Harry breathes almost soundlessly.

“That  _thing_ ,” Louis points, like he’s pointing a gun with two fingers, “in your bag! What the hell is that? You some goth that’s into vampirism shit or summat? Oh, please, please tell me that is not blood, Harry.” He shakes his head and groans into his hand, then pauses, taking his hand away to look at Harry in the eye, squinting hard. “Is that even your real name?”

Harry’s mouth falls open, incredulous. “Of course it’s my bloody real name! And it’s justꟷit’s just rum,” he splutters, “It’s not blood, I swear. I don’tꟷI’m not into any weird shit like that, I promise.”

Louis winces. Because Harry is lying. It’s written all over his panic-stricken face.

“That’s clearly a lie,” Louis scoffs, the urge to start laughing manically climbing up his throat as he paces on the kitchen tiles. He sees Amy’s headband that she left on the kitchen table and his chest briefly contracts, chest tight. “What were you gonna do? Play me like a violin and then slip me whatever the fuck that is while you run off with all my shit?” he practically screeches.

“Louis, no. Of course not. Please,” Harry pleads, words slow, hands held up in the air in surrender, as if to calm Louis down, as though he’s a spooked horse. His bag drops softly to the floor with a clink.

Louis stares at the bag with disbelieving eyes. “Are there any body parts in there?”

“No!” Harry’s face is outraged. “For god’s sake.”

“What does your mum really grow in her garden? Drugs?”

“ _Louis_. Please.” And Harry’s voice is urgent now, terrified, if Louis knew any better. "Just harmless herbs." 

He barrels on without listening. “I bet you were gonna steal my van while you were at it, weren’t you? Yeah, get me sweet, make me feel sorry for you, then bam. I’m out like a light.” Harry shakes his head vehemently. “Was anything you said even true?”

Okay, there’s a chance Louis might be losing it.

“It is rum, Louis! It’s only rum,” Harry insists desperately but even he can tell Harry knows he can’t get away with this ridiculous explanation, taking a step toward Louis.

“Pretty fucking dark colour for rum!”

Harry quiets, exhaling heavily, mouth downturned.

Louis laughs humourlessly. “Listen, mateꟷ”

“Coke! It’s rum and coke,” Harry amends quickly, eyes wide and panicked, much to Louis’ dismay. If Harry was actually planning on drugging him, he’s got to be the shittiest would-be burglar he’s ever heard of.

“Coke?” Louis says blankly.

“Yeah,” Harry nods his head furiously, looking to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

“You carry… rum… and coke,” Louis speaks slowly, taking another step closer, to which Harry takes a nervous step back, “in a tiny  _vial_  that looks like it can only hold three mouthfuls and like it’s something out of a bloody Harry Potter potions class?”

Harry visibly swallows. “Okay, okay. I know that it’s weird, but I don’t like those flasks and it’s, I dunno, it looks cool? I like really old, ancient things, alright? Weird, strange things. Stuff that’s got history attached to it. Okay? And guess I’mꟷ I’m obviously just really fucking weird as a person if you hadn’t already noticed.” Harry’s cheeks are positively aflame. “ _Okay_?”

“No,” Louis exhales roughly. “No. That’s not all there is. I can tell when people are lying, Harry, and you’re doing it right now. Why are you  _lying?_ Did you come to rob me because you know my mum’s gone abroad and you don’t think I’m strong enough to take your lanky arse? Listen, the most expensive thing in this house is our TV and even that’s on its way outꟷ”

“I’m not trying to rob you! This is justꟷWhat is happening right now?" Harry practically screeches, tugging at his hair, eyes bulging in disbelief. 

“Then what are you doing? Because okay, you’re the weirdest person I’ve probably ever met,” he says, ignoring Harry’s flushed gaze drop to the floor, despite the twinge of immediate regret. “You speak to a shit ton of cats like you’re the Pied Piper of felines, you carry really strange shit in that rucksack of yours, which for all I know carries a human head”ꟷHarry gasps in outrageꟷ“you read that questionable-looking book in the café with your friends who, I’m sorry, seem just as weird as you, you’re climbing down drainpipes, you’re skittish as all hellꟷ”

“Okay!” Harry yelps, “I get the picture. You think I’m a freak. Well, congrats. You guessed it. I am. A massive freak,” he mutters, and his voice it’s… well, it’s hurt. Really hurt. Harry’s mouth twists into a downward pull, pressing them tightly together, his eyes gathering wetness and they’re shiny and still a bit red-rimmed from earlier and oh no, no, he’s not gonnaꟷ

There’s a tense stretch of silence, their ragged breathing the only sound in the kitchen, other than the dripping tap, bathed in low amber light. Louis stares absently at the assortment of cartoon magnets stuck to the fridge door, takes in the lace of the netted curtains hanging loosely at the kitchen window. It’s getting even lighter outside now, sunrise almost here. Louis sort of feels like he’s having an out of body experience.

Harry’s arms reach around his middle, hugging himself, on the verge of a fresh bout of tears, his plump red lip quivering as he fights to blink them back, cheeks flushed a dark shade of pink.

Shit. He's a complete dickhead.

“Please don’t cry again,” Louis says more gently, lifting his hand automatically to comfort, to soothe, or... something. He makes no move to touch him, though. Not after that outburst. Harry probably doesn't want to speak to him ever again after all this. “Oh, god. Shit, I’m so sorry. Don’t listen to me. I don’t even know what I’m saying. I’ve been an utter shit to you just now. I’m sleep-deprived, I think. I was drinking earlierꟷnot that that’s an excuse for what I just said to you. For that reactionꟷ I’mꟷ”

He takes a deep breath, looking at Harry with all the earnestness he can manage. And really, it’s not hard in the slightest to be genuine towards Harry. The boy’s so sweet. He can’t believe he yelled at him like that.

There's an excruciating stretch of silence.

“Harry," Louis manages finally, "I don’t think you’re a freak, okay? Far from it. Not at all. You’re actually quite… quirky. Kooky, I guess. And that’s good! It’s… well, it’s actually cool, to be honest. You’re quite aꟷ” Louis smiles, “character. And I'm really sorry. I really am."

Harry lifts his head gradually, a disbelieving frown on face. He’s not crying, at least.

Thank Christ for that.

“Really?” he asks, tone dubious.

"Yeah, yes! Absolutely. God, I am so sorry I thought you were part of a vampire club, Harry."

"No. I mean, you don't think I'm a weirdo?" he says slowly, tentatively, like Louis' suddenly going to shout at him again and call him a freak until he's blue in the face. 

Jesus. What even was all that just now? He needs to lie down. He’s exhausted. And shit. He's shit. “Of course I don’t," he insists, smiling widely now.

There’s a short stretch of silence as the air seems to clear, dissolving the horrible tenseness and harsh atmosphere.

“No, I get it,” Harry begins, body still stiff and rather understandably guarded, picking his bag up and hoisting it back over his shoulder, “and I understand why you thought I wasꟷ Why what I have contained inꟷI dunno. Why you thought it was suspect. And if you don’t wanna give me a ride now, that’s fine. I don’t blame you being wary of me now.” He sounds resigned, almost like he’s used to this, of being accused of things, of being a strange kid. “I’d be the same, really.”

And something kick-starts in Louis, something like protectiveness. “No.”

The surprise is still evident on Harry’s face despite the fact he obviously thinks their little road trip is over. 

“Oh, okay,” he says dejectedly. “Yeah, that’s fair.” He looks like a kicked puppy.

“No,” Louis says, smiling. “I’m the one who should be apologising for those accusations I just threw at you.”

Harry opens his mouth to speak. 

"No, really, it's not fine." Louis holds up a hand. “I went a bit mad there because I’ve been having these nightmares lately and they’re really disturbing, if I’m honest. They keep me up at night and I just sort of had a flashback or something when I saw your vial and the rose on the floor, hence the way I went off on one andꟷ Yeah. This isn’t your fault. I was really rude and awful just now."

Harry stays quiet.

Louis might flush. Just a bit. Because Harry clearly agrees and why shouldn’t he?

Harry frowns, visibly unhappy and unsure. So Louis scrambles, anything to clear the air. "You still want to go?"

“Yeah," Louis nods. "And just so you know, Mariah Carey will be playing for at least half the duration of the time it takes to get to,” he pauses, gestures with his hand vaguely, “wherever it is that we’re going?” He arches a brow at him.

Harry frowns deeper, seemingly working hard to find the answer to a particularly difficult equation.

“Um. Harry? You don’t have to accept my apology. I got pretty personal with those insultsꟷ”

“No, it’s not that,” Harry shakes his head. “I mean, thank you. For the apology,” he tells him earnestly. And god, he’s so sincere, it hurts Louis’ insides a bit. “But I _was_ being weird, andꟷyou don’t even know the half of it. Just howꟷgod, what my life is like.”

It’s Louis’ turn to frown now. “Harry, what I said, I didn’t meanꟷ”

“Sure you aren’t offering to take me with you because  _you_  need to get away, then?” Harry cuts him off, changing the subject. And it’s clear that that’s what it is, to both of them, probably. Louis closes his mouth. “Are you sure your parents aren’t suffocating you, too?” he adds on quietly, self-deprecatingly.

Louis softens, gives him a sympathetic smile. “No, my mum’s... she’s brilliant. I love her more than the world.”

The creases between Harry's brows fade, paving the way for a lovely, small smile. “Oh. That’s a lovely thing to say. She seems really nice. She always smiles and says hello to me.”

“Yeah, that’s mum. Bubbly and approachable as anything.”

“What about… um, sorry, I don’t know if it’s okay to askꟷ” Harry blushes, the warm hue of the lights making Harry’s complexion look even softer, his bright green eyes still a bit glassy, trained on the beige kitchen tiles, fiddling with the strap on his rucksack uselessly.

“My dad?” Louis sighs, pulling the blinds up on the door. “Buggered off years ago when my little sister was born. But, no, uh, mum and Amy are away on holiday in Mallorca with her friends for ten daysꟷdon’t repeat that, though,” he suddenly thinks to say, “I’m really not in the mood to be burgled, thank you. But it’s just my mum, my sister and me. And they’re away on holiday right now, so.”

“You didn’t go with them?”

“Well, I do need to get away for a bit, if I’m being honest. But I wanted to hang back this year, do something different. Amy was a bit upset, but I wasn’t really feeling it this year.”

“You don’t have friends to spend it with?” Harry asks, expression curious.

Well, yes, he does have friends. But when all they want to do is go to the pub to chat up girls… it’s not the most fun he’s gonna have, is it?

“I do,” Louis answers, “but let’s just say we don’t quite have the same interests anymore. And I need… something different. I love them, don’t get me wrong, but… yeah. I just need something else right now. For a bit. An adventure or summat. I dunno,” he chuckles, itching the back of his neck, then moving his fingers to his fringe, flicking it out of his eyes.

Harry’s quiet as he seems to take this in for a moment. “How old are you?”

Louis lifts a brow and then smirks. “How old are  _you_?”

“Eighteen,” Harry replies, a little too defensively in Louis’ opinion. He laughs as Harry folds his arms around himself, standing there with his floppy brown curls and cherubic features, his rucksack with patches on now at his feet, those lips that are almost too big and pink for his face, pouty, and in his dark blue denim  _dungarees_ , and, well, he looks more like a disgruntled toddler standing in the middle of Louis’ kitchen.

There’s that chest clench again, only now he’s grinning, veins pumping with mirth.

“I see.”

“I  _am_.” Harry’s expression is disgruntled.

Louis laughs again, and Harry abruptly hisses for him to be quiet, eyes big and round and just a tad on the threatening side. “Shush!”

“Sorry,” Louis breathes, covering his mouth.

Harry shakes his head. “She must have heard all this by now, anyway,” he says forlornly.

Louis cringes in lieu of another apology. Harry meets his gaze and smirks before schooling it back into unhappiness. Louis thinks he’s milking it now.

“I didn’t say you weren’t, you know,” he whispers, still laughing silently the longer he watches Harry’s displeased, rather adorable face.

“You were implying I’m younger than you.” Harry’s chin is legitimately lifting up haughtily. This exchange just went from awkward to teasing. It’s precious.

“You are.”

“Not by much?”

“Oh, I’m actually nearly twenty-one. Almost at Vegas age.”

“Almost?” Harry says, distrustful eyes raking over Louis slowly.

“Well,” Louis shrugs, sliding his fringe over the side of his forehead. And ugh, it’s a bit greasy. “Four months away.”

“So, you’re twenty.”

“Technically.”

“There’s nothing ‘technically’ about it,” Harry grins, on the verge of releasing a giggle. “It’s two years. That’s nothing.”

Louis waves him off, smirking. “Small details.”

“No, it’s a lack of logic and basic numeracy skills.” Harry takes a step closer, smile growing.

"Why do you care so much, anyway? Bit defensive, aren't we?" Louis says sweetly around a grin, flicking his hair hands free with a toss of his head. He puts his hands on his hips and steps up to Harry, noting the few inches difference in height. He smiles haughtily, widening his stance. “Do you want me to be your designated driver or not?”

Yes, he is absolutely flirting. He’s still hoping to befriend Harry but if something else transpires between them, Louis is definitely not opposed to that.

Harry narrows his eyes slightly, teeth nibbling on his bottom lip contemplatively, flitting between his lips, to his eyes, and back to his lips again.

Louis arches an eyebrow as Harry keeps his gaze intently focused on his mouth, and a bit too long to presume he's... Well. Well, well.

Louis grins at him wider, feeling sparkly-eyed and highly entertained. This is the most fun he’s had all week, save for the extreme up and down moods he’s experienced so far with that earlier debacle. He shrugs playfully, confidently. “Okay, then,” he says slowly, eyeing Harry closely. Harry still hasn’t as much as glanced away from his face.

“So,” he announces, and Harry jumps out of his brief fixation with Louis’ mouth. “Back to the matter at hand. You need a ride out of here, right? And I wanted an excuse to get out of here for a bit, anyway, too, and I have transportation, which, I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess that you don’t, and that’s what you need. For the running away to fix this problem and that, yeah?”

Harry’s stare is unnerving. It’s also very unimpressed. He’s staring hard at Louis, almost too closely, eyes flitting all over his face and then focusing back on Louis’ eyes again. It’s as though he’s picking apart Louis’ brain and general self with those intense green eyes, weighing up his options and deciding whether or not he can trust him, Louis guesses. Either way, Louis feels exposed. And he doesn’t like it.

Louis’ about to scoff, tell him to forget it when:

“I was just gonna get the train,” Harry says finally, half-heartedly, fingers playing with the bracelets on his thin wrist. “Originally.”

“Yeah?” Harry nods, mouth downturned, “and then what?”

He almost thinks Harry’s about to snap, tell Louis where to go and stop giving him the third degree, but he looks unsure, suddenly a bit smaller, more his age. If Louis keeps softening any more his heart is actually going to turn into a gooey piece of soft fudge at this point.

He watches Harry scrape the sole of his shoe uselessly across the tiles, fingers abandoning his bracelets, his thumb moving to fiddle with his bag strap instead. He shrugs, freeing a chest-heavy sigh. “IꟷI haven’t planned that far ahead, have I,” he mumbles, tightening his arms around himself.

“Oh, well, that is a surprise,” Louis raises his eyebrows, shaking his head.

Harry flicks his gaze up. “Are you _trying_  to get on my nerves or are you this annoying in general?” he smiles.

“Oh, if this annoys you, you’re in for a treat on our little road trip, kid,” he smirks.

Harry scrunches up his face but he’s still half-smiling. “We’re practically the same age,” he protests. “How can you be calling me ‘kid’?”

Louis ignores him. “Have you got any idea where you want to go?”

Instantly, the mood sobers and the spark that was just climbing to the surface, radiating off of Harry in waves has dimmed slightly, his face falling.

"Hey, don't worry,” Louis starts. Harry meets his eyes. “If you have no idea where to start, we'll figure it out together if you want?"

Harry shakes his head. “No, it’s not that.”

“So, you  _do_  have somewhere in mind?”

“I need to find _someone_.”

“Okay,” Louis nods. “Where did you want to start looking for them?”

“Um, it’s my aunt that I have to see. She lives a couple of hours away.”

“Yeah?”

“In Nottingham.”

"Okay, that's more than doable."

"Yeah,” Harry agrees, pressing his lips together.

“Anything else you want to tell me?” Louis smiles.

“No,” Harry answers a beat late, but Louis doesn’t make too much out of it. He supposes Harry will reveal more about himself and his life if he wants to when they get on the road. Louis can wait. “But you really don’t need to offer this up, you know. I do really appreciate the ride, though. If it’s not too much trouble?” Harry’s tone is so grateful, big green eyes round and tinged with hopefulness.

“Well, you tell me. _Are_  you trouble?”

Harry shakes his head quickly. “No, I’ll pay half of the cost of the petrol we use, obviously, and I won’t push my luck about whereꟷ”

“I’m just messin’ with you, Harry,” Louis grins, and after a moment, Harry seems to relax, rolling his eyes as he grins back. “So, um. Okay. If we’re doing this, I obviously need some supplies, too. I've got a rucksack I need to fill, so do you wanna come upstairs for a sec?” Louis asks. He shoots Harry a measured look, noting the defensive exterior cooling off rapidly.

“Oh, uh.” Harry glances around the kitchen like he’s searching for something, debating the pros and cons of Louis’ offer. Louis can literally see the alarm bells going off inside Harry’s head, can hear the clogs turning, the panic setting back in again.

“Harry?”

He flicks his gaze to Louis, snapping out of wherever it is he went. They’re two peas in a pod, eh? 

"Hm?"

“You don’t have to,” Louis tells him seriously. “You can wait down here, but I just really need a shower before we head off. I stink. Unless you’ve changed your mind and have decided I could very well murder you out on the road. And I understand your reservations but I'm a nice person, I promise. Not including the rants I've gone on so far."

Harry just blinks. For several seconds. Louis might be a bit worried about him now.

Then a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Thought that was me doing the murdering?”

“You cheeky twat,” Louis grins. He glances at the window. The sun’s coming up, the sound of the birds outside chirping loudly. Hmm. “Wow, it’s pretty light out now. Do you still want to leave as soon as?”

"Um. I can wait a bit longer.” Harry shifts his weight from foot to foot, eyes throwing a quick glance over at his own bedroom window through the slanted conservatory roof. He takes an unfaltering step forward toward Louis this time, raises his eyebrows as if to say, “let’s go then”, followed by a soft smile and Louis takes it as his cue to lead the way to his bedroom.

It’s as Louis is turning to open the door that leads to the hallway that Louis does a double-take, his mouth falling open and releasing a shrill gasp against his will.

“That was dead,” he shrieks, pointing aggressively to the now fully blossomed, living, breathing green potted plant sitting on the kitchen window sill that, not two minutes ago, was very fully a _dead_ potted plant. It was yellow and wilted and everything. Two fucking _minutes_ ago.

What the fuck?

“What was?” Harry asks, completely unperturbed and facing Louis.

“This!” He picks it up the lush green plant by the bottom of its white pot, manically waving it around. “It’s dead.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“ _Harry_.” Louis glares daggers at him. “Don’t be a prat.”

“You just said it was dead. I was being polite.”

“Does this look _dead_ to you? Look at it!” Louis thrusts the plant in Harry’s face, dropping a dusting of very healthy, dark soil around the kitchen floor. 

Harry still seems undisturbed. 

Louis gapes in shock, unsure what to make of Harry’s non-reaction, who’s now staring at the plant, eyes fixed and frozen to the spot. “This plant was rotten, Harry! Mum told me to throw it out before she left. Now look at it! It’s thriving! Alive!"

Harry nods slowly. “It looks perfectly lovely to me.”

“Exactly!”

Harry hums, mouth pulled into a contemplative downturn.

“How did that happen? I’m not going crazy, right. Plants do _not_ just come back to life after a minute? We haven’t changed seasons in the last five minutes.”

“I thought you said it was two minutes ago?”

“Yes,” Louis splutters, dumbfounded. Like that’s the point? “But the point here is that the plant was dead and now it’s alive again, green and healthy, probably even more than when we bloody got the thing!”

Harry just hums again, looking at anything but at Louis.

Louis squints. “How did that happen, Harry?” he asks, words slow, cautious, gorging Harry’s expression.

“Why are you asking me?” Harry smiles, chuckling at the ground. It’s a fake laugh.

There's no denying he’s hiding something, and Louis is desperate to know what.

“Because you know how it happened, don’t you?" Harry flits his gaze away. "Did you do it? Use some kind of fancy herb from another country, something that your mum grows?” Louis suggests.

“Yeah,” Harry says after too long a pause, his face blank and unreadable.

No.

“Bullshit.”

“Louisꟷ”

“I’m not going anywhere, or taking you anywhere, unless you to tell me what’s going on with you.”

Harry exhales heavily, face etched in anxiety, having paled further. He slumps into a chair and hides his face in his hands.

Louis might feel mad with curiosity and confusion right now, but he's still struck with the strong urge to reach out to the other boy. With a sigh, he pulls out the opposite chair, sits down, and places his hands on the table, eyes trained on Harry.

“Please tell me?” he asks softly. “I know you’re hiding something and whatever it is, I can handle it, okay? Maybe I can help, even?” Louis has no idea what he’s saying, what he even expects Harry to tell him, but there is something happening here that isn’t normal. He can feel it stirring in the air, brushing his skin and making the hair stand on end. It’s a feeling he can’t describe, an intuition. An overwhelming instinct that there’s something else to Harry, something more and unusual and… otherworldly.

God, does he even want to know? And who can say he’s even going to believe what implausible thing Harry might tell him?

“Oh, Louis,” Harry says, voice wretched. “I can’t.”

“You can. I swear. Whatever you tell me stays between these walls.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I think… maybe I have _some_ idea?”

Harry’s look is sceptical. So is Louis, to be honest. Then Harry groans, tips his head back and exposes his neck. Louis tries not to stare at the unblemished, probably soft skin. There’s more pressing matters at hand here. Like the fact that whatever Harry says next might change his whole world.

“I really don’t think you’re going to believe me.” His expression is pained.

“Try me?” Louis says. He smiles, small and hopefully somewhat encouraging.

“I don’t know.”

There’s a beat.

Louis reaches over, about to place his hand on one of Harry’s, but Harry flinches, immediately recoiling from Louis’ hand. Louis forces his expression to stay neutral despite his face likely appearing taken aback, ignoring the stab of hurt in his chest.

Neither of them says anything for a few moments until Louis clears his throat, attempting to diffuse the tension that’s settled at the table.

“What did you say you needed to fix again?” Louis means to make his voice sound casual, as a way of steering the conversation, but instead it comes out incredibly suspicious and wary; he sounds exactly like he knows Harry is hiding what it is he’s desperate to sort out without his mum finding out he’s doing it.

Harry lifts his head, dragging his eyes away from the section of table he apparently finds incredibly interesting. He frowns slightly, lips poised into a small, confused pout. “I didn’t.”

They gaze at each other, waiting for the other to speak again.

“Oh, right.” Louis nods exaggeratedly.

Another few excruciating moments go by, then Harry levels Louis with a serious look. “Okay. I’m going to get something out of my bag.”

“Okay?”

“To show you.” Harry bites his lip.

Show him. Right. Okay. Louis nods.

Harry exhales, a brief, quiet sigh and then pushes his chair back; the legs screech as they come into contact with the tiles and Harry gets up, taking his rucksack over to the worktop. Harry meets Louis’ eyes and so Louis gets up too, following Harry over to the counter and planting his hands on the surface, ignoring the adrenaline rush that's causing his hands to shake a bit, waiting for whatever it is Harry is about to trust him enough to show him.

Trust him.

Well.

“You don’t feel pressured into this, do you?" Louis asks worriedly. "Harry, if you're really uncomfortable with showing me anything, you really don’t have toꟷ”

“It’s fine," Harry cuts in. "I doꟷ I kind of _do_ want to tell someone. You know, someone who isn’t part of it, not part of my family? It gets kind of lonely, sometimes. Knowing no one else is supposed to know.”

“ _Do_ you trust me, though? What if I decide I can’t take it and want nothing more to do with you? It could be a possible outcome. I’m not though, by the way. Gonna run and blab, I mean.”

Harry looks at him with unblinking eyes. “I trust you, yes,” is all he says, quiet but resoundingly certain.

It takes Louis aback, belly fluttering with it. “You do?” he says, confused. "We barely know each other."

“Yeah,” Harry says, and it feels oddly familiar, this exchange, but that’s impossible, too. There’s just so much that seems impossible with Harry and yet.

He watches Harry dig through his rucksack, rummaging around the contents, rustling and clanking sounds filling the otherwise fragile quiet of the kitchen until he pulls out a smooth, black bowl. He places it on the surface and then retrieves several more vials, all different shapes and sizes, all containing different liquids and substancesꟷsome similar to the one in Harry’s dungaree pocket. It must remind Harry too, because now he’s pulling it out of the front of his stomach and placing it on the surface next to the rest.

Louis watches him in silence, biting back every instinctual cynical comment that sits on his acidic tongue.

“What are you doing?” he asks finally, causing Harry to pause on one of the vials as he tugs the stopper out of the top.

“Showing you what’s going on.”

"Are you sure?"

Harry smiles slightly. "Scared?"

Louis squints. "Do you want me to be?"

"No, of course not," Harry insists, frowning as though he's never heard such a suggestion. "And you've no reason to be. I just. I really want to tell someone. I'm ready," he says, a determined edge to his voice.

Louis' chest sort of swells a bit. With fondness and pride and maybe a lot of apprehension. "Yeah?" he says, voice soft.

"Yeah," Harry nods easily. "It's time someone knew. And I dunno. I have this feeling that you'd take it... I think you'll be okay with it."

"Even though we actually barely know each other?" Louis reminds him again, raising an eyebrow.

Harry shrugs, staring at him closely. Louis blushes.

“Well,” Louis says, shaking his head in disbelief, needing to talk or he’s going to burst with the anticipation, “aren’t you going to give me any kind of clue?” Harry stays quiet. “It’s not illegal, is it? Because I have the right to know if I’m doing something that could have me end up in a cell.” He frowns.

“No, no, it’s nothing like that.” He pauses again, not looking at Louis. “Not really. Not _here_ , anyway.”

Oh, that’s very comforting. “God. What does ‘ _here_ ’ mean?” Louis asks, voice close to a whine.

Harry opens his mouth then pointedly shuts it. He lifts his gaze to meet Louis’, clear and sincere. “It’s okay,” he tells him, as though he’s reminding him of the fact again. “ _Please_ don’t be freaked out, alright? Nothing’s going to hurt you with me here. It’s all fine. If something... odd happens, don't panic. I have it under control."

Jesus Christ. What is he about to do exactly? Bring back the dead? Release a demonic entity? What is happening here??

Louis eyebrows shoot up to his hairline and he gives Harry an incredulous look. “What? Why would I think thatꟷ”

“I promise.”

“I swear to God, Harry,” Louis glares.

Harry produces the remnants of a smirk in the corner of his pink mouth, and although Louis’ belly feels tight and uncomfortable, the bad kind of butterflies filling his insides, still, inexplicably, Louis feels completely safe with only Harry’s reassurances, no matter what he’s about to show him. 

Then the smirk is gone, and a determined expression sets his jaw in its place, apparently deciding to search through his bag for something else before his hands reach inside and his jaw clenches with the effort as he lifts out what appears to be an unbelievably heavy, extremely ancient book, the spine thick and sturdy and lined with gold.

“Okay,” Louis utters quietly to himself, noting it’s the same ancient book that he’s been sifting through in the café before, along with those two friends of his, remembering the smiley girl with the pack of fancy tarot cards.

Harry brings it over and sets it down carefully, softly, as though it’s made from glass, despite how incredibly heavy it seems. It’s dark brown in colour, discoloured and bumpy, countless scratches marked into the cover from probable wear and tear overꟷgod, how long? Decades? Centuries, even? There’s an engraved star in the middle, highlighted in rusty gold with five points, a perfect circle around it where the points meet, each point marked with a minuscule purple stone. Harry’s fingers run delicately over the spine before he opens it halfway through; it’s such a large book, the number of pages incredibly thick and brimming with content, whatever it is. Louis can’t decipher it, but it’s written (handwritten) in some kind of very old language. It also appears to have been written with a quill and ink.

Louis’ face twists in bafflement.  

Because... oh, god, in Louis’ heart of hearts, as silly and nonsensical and ridiculous and illogical as it sounds in his head, he thinks he knows what it is. What Harry is showing him. It’s glaring, right in front of him, and Harry seems to be one hundred percent serious, an earnestness in how he’s handling this text beneath his hands, with respect, knowledge, ease.

He's in no way joking about this.

But if Louis’ thoughts are right, if he’s correct in putting all this together, then  _holy shit,_  Louis’ sense of reality is about to be utterly turned upside down and onto its head.

(That, or he really needs a trip to a therapist’s office.)

Harry turns another chunk of pages, then a few more, dust particles gathering in the air around them as he continues to search for what he’s after.

He lands on the page he’s looking for and the title reads, in black, faded, cursive text: LOCATION SPELL, the pads of his fingers holding the page open and in place, piled on top of the hundreds of previous pages.

Louis stares, speechless, for an immeasurable length of time as Harry moves methodically, instinctively around the contents from behind the counter, apparently unbothered by Louis' silence, pouring a dark, murky liquid into a mosaic patterned ceramic bowl from one of the vials with what can only be described as absolute precision, as though he’s done all this, whatever it is, a thousand times before.

"Okay, no, wait," Louis blurts out, grinning senselessly, mind whirring and on the verge of bursting into hysterical laughter. "Are you…” He covers his mouth. “Are you trying to tell me that you'reꟷ” he chokes off a laugh, “some kind of…  _witch_?"

"That's exactly what I'm telling you," Harry answers, jarringly calm, a world away from the nervous wreck he was only minutes ago, sprinkling some dry herbs into the bowl on top of the liquid.

“ _Harry_ ꟷ” Louis starts, reaching out to mindlessly brush the back of Harry’s hand with his fingertips, but as soon as Louis’ fingers make contact with his smooth, cold skin, Harry’s eyes unmistakably flash a brilliant violet, flickering with gold around the irises.

Louis jerks backwards at once, almost tripping over a chair in the process, eyes practically bulging out of his sockets, fingertips practically _buzzing_ with an inexplicable energy. “What the _fuck_  was that?”

This is broad daylight now. The sun is up. There’s no trick of the light to explain away what Louis saw. He’s completely sober by now. He may be lacking in the good night’s sleep department, but Harry’s eyes did turn purple.

They _did_.

“What the fuck was what?” Harry repeats back to him after a moment, the words spoken far more languidly compared to Louis’ reproachful rush of them, frantic and head swimming with the inability to comprehend what's happening. (At least Harry has the decency to look sheepish as he blinks at him.)

“No, no, no, no. Don’t  _do_ that,” Louis points, walking up to where Harry sits perched on the edge of the worktop, hands clasped neatly in his lap, colourful bracelets fallen around his small wrists and resting atop the backs of his large palms. “Don’t treat me like an idiot. Not again. I  _know_  what I saw, Harry. Your _eyes_.”

Harry looks steadily back at Louis’ accusatory gaze, calm, even if his eyes are as round as saucers, anxious and expectant.

“What about them?” Harry answers calmly, tone prodding, like he’s gently pushing Louis towards the answer on his own.

“They turned _purple._  You have _green_ eyes! How the hell is that  _possible_? They changed colour, Harry!”

Harry stops what he’s fiddling with and looks at Louis head on, face falling back into openness. “Do you really want to know?”

Louis nods slowly on a swallow. “It wasn’t a trick of light.”

“No,” Harry agrees after a beat.

“You’re not wearing any fancy contacts that change colour or anything?”

Harry shakes his head, languid, watchful.

“You’re actually a witch? A _witch_ , Harry? In _real life_?” he says, voice becoming progressively shriller. "That's what's been going on here? This is what you're _seriously, genuinely_ telling me?"

“Yes.” Harry tucks a loose curl behind his ear. Louis tracks the motion, dazed. “I’m a witch,” he exhales, perfectly, endearingly put together in his pair of dungarees and his pretty bracelets and his glossy curly locks, one of his hands clutching a tiny bottle filled with a maroon-coloured liquid.

"A witch," Louis echoes.

A half-cackle, half-gasp abruptly leaves Louis’ throat as he takes in what Harry' just said, the other boy watching him warily, carefully, and then Louis is slumping against the counter, pressing his face into the surface of the smooth, fake-marble worktop, features squashed uncomfortably. "I need to seriously limit my daily intake of caffeine,” he mumbles hopelessly into it. A loud crackle suddenly makes Louis jump out of his skin, then there's a _snap_ , a violent spark of light, and everything goes dark.


	3. iii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note: I mention Pagan witchcraft briefly so apologies if my quick online research is wrong or misinterpreted. Please let me know if there's anything offensive in that section. I used it as an example for when Harry is explaining what magic is to him.

 

 

 

 

_Then a woman, she screams  
_

_It's a terrible night  
_

_As the mood changes to dark from light  
_

_Tell the doctor what's become of me  
_

_So you can analyse, analyse my dreams_

 

_Now we're both in the room  
_

_And we're breathing the fumes_

 

 

\- Daughter, 'Smoke'

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Louis was very young, he got lost. He’d wandered around the town, shivering and wet in his little raincoat and woollen beanie, snuffles coming thick and fast as he trudged along the pavements drenched in puddles and covered in soggy, fallen leaves, following the rounded roads and corners in the hope that he’d end back up at his own front door and back in his mum’s warm arms, realising with every step that he was far from home. 

He’d been at the park with his father, but he never did like him much; he snapped at Louis, always looked bored, ended up distracted by anything but Louis, so when he wasn’t looking, Louis bolted out of there and went further out than he was supposed to, stopping only when he got to entrance of the surrounding woods.

Except, he didn’t stop there.

Louis’ curious mind was itching to explore, feeling mischievous and stubborn because his dad didn’t want to play with him.

So he kept going, padding into the arched, muddy trail in his little red wellington boots, a canopy of trees and bushes above him, dipped in auburn and yellows and browns. Piles of leaves and snapped-off twigs and large half-rotten branches were scattered on the ground he walked on, dark clouds in the sky, shrouding the trail in near darkness, which made it a combination of spooky and magical.

It was fun, exciting to be a bit naughty and do something he wasn’t allowed to do.

Until he walked too far and ended up in the local churchyard of the neighbouring town. He’d run back out of the gates again, wandering around the neighbourhood, frustration growing when he realised none of the houses looked like his own.

So he’d gone back to the churchyard, and he’d sat himself on a bench amid the wonky graves and the overgrown grass and wilting bouquets of flowers, and Louis felt traumatised, frightened and desperate to go home. And so he cried loudly, wailing, hoping some kind passerby would hear him and take him home.

After a while, he tired himself out from all the crying, and not long after, he noticed another little boy, also seemingly on his own.

He was sitting between two graves, but had no coat on like Louis did, and he was talking gibberish as far as Louis could tell. Louis wondered if he was cold, but he seemed to be alright, happily playing by himself with no other adults or children around, reading a huge book and waving his hands every so often, clapping in excitement.

Curious, Louis stood up and cautiously walked a little closer to the other boy.

As the boy played, it became apparent that the boy was talking to someone, though there was absolutely no one else around in the graveyard to be seen. It unsettled Louis and the longer he watched him, the more he had the strangest feeling he was talking to another personꟷthey just weren’t from this world.

 _A ghost_ , Louis thought. He must be talking to a ghost. And he looked _happy_ about it. Perfectly calm and glad and not even the slightest bit scared.

Louis was scared. He was terrified. He crouched down but couldn’t keep his eyes from straying from what was happening before him.

He smelled the smoke before he saw it, beginning to expand in a grey cloud, wafting around the vicinity. The boy was lighting something, starting a small fire in a large dark bowl.

Louis’ eyes widened and further intrigued, he crawled closer still, hiding behind one of the gravestones and getting his knees muddy in the process (his mum was going to be so upset with him), but as he continued to shuffle nearer to the boy, straining his neck to get a better look at what exactly he was playing with, the weight of his knee caught on a twig, which caused an audible _crack._

The other boy’s head instantly snapped up to seek out the source of the noise, quick as a blink, and his eyes fell right upon where Louis was unsuccessfully attempting to shield himself from view, cold, numb fingers clinging to the damp stone, his knees uncomfortably squelching in the grass.

“Hello?” the boy called out, his voice cautious but steady.

Louis stayed behind the gravestone, because how was he meant to know what this boy was capable of? Maybe he wasn’t even a boy? Maybe he was a ghost, too, one that Louis could see.

Oh, no. What if Louis could see dead people? (Louis really didn’t fancy that. He’d never sleep again.)

“Hello?” the boy repeated, and then Louis heard the rustling of the grass beneath footsteps, getting closer, closer.

Louis squeezed his eyes shut, the wind caressing his cheeks harshly.

“What are you doing down there?”

Louis opened his eyes.

“UmꟷIꟷI, uhꟷI got lost,” he stammered out, jaw trembling because he was so ridiculously cold.

The boy seemed to consider Louis for a long moment, moulding his lips into a thoughtful pout.

“Do you want to come and sit next to the fire?”

Louis’ eyes drifted over to the sparking flames situated between the graves.

“It might warm you up,” the boy said, a wide smile spreading across his flushed face. His nose was red, a cluster of different-shaped pendants hanging around his neck, coming down almost to his stomach. Louis frowned. 

“Um. I don’t know.”

The boy shrugged.

“What’s your name?” the boy then asked instead.

“What did I tell you about not running off?” a woman suddenly said, voice cross, making both boys jump out of their skin.

She took a firm hold of the boy’s hand and was about to leave when she startled at the sight of Louis.

“Oh,” she said, a bit softer. “Who are you, then?”

“I’m lost,” Louis said, strangling a sob that threatened to rise from his throat.

“Oh, darling,” the woman said, holding out her other hand. The boy watched Louis with wide, green eyes, enraptured. “Where do you live? Do you remember the way?”

“I’mꟷI’m not sure.”

“How about you come with me and you can tell me if anything looks familiar to you, okay? And we’ll see about getting you home.”

She smiled, warm and comforting, despite her strange attire. She was wearing dark clothing, a purple and black dress that reached almost down to her ankles, but she wore a t-shirt atop it, printed with _The Smiths_ across her chest. A woollen black shawl wrapped around her slight shoulders, half-hidden by a large denim jacket. Her long brown hair fell in waves, pushed to one side of her pretty, pale face, and she had a collection of pendants around her neck, much like the boy did. She smelled of lavender and her nails were painted black.

Louis’ nose wrinkled, and he couldn’t help but bluntly blurt out, “Are you a witch?”

The woman grinned, her lips crimson, a sweeping flare of purple eyeshadow across her eyelids. “I am, indeed.”

“Oh,” Louis replied, surprised he’d gotten an answer.

“I’m a good witch, though, I promise." She crossed over her heart.

Louis nodded seriously. “That's good. I’d like to be a witch, too.”

"And me! I do, too!" The other boy exclaimed, smiling brightly at Louis.

The woman laughed. “Careful what you wish for, young one.” She winked at Louis and led them all away to the exit, hand in hand.

She did take him home but didn’t accompany Louis to the door; she gave him a single lilac rose for some reason, telling Louis it was for luck, only waved at Louis once with a smile, and briskly drove away. Louis craned his head at his doorstep, loosely holding the thorned stem in his little hands to catch one more glimpse of the boy, who was waving at him, face pressed to the window. Louis waved back enthusiastically until he couldn't see the car anymore.

His mum cried and fell to her knees when she opened the door and saw him, which made Louis cry, too, relieved and tired and so cold as his mother scooped him up and clung onto him so, so tightly. He buried his face in her chest, smelling home.

"Can we have bangers and mash, please?" he said, muffled by her woollen jumper, and after she'd finished yelling angrily about his dad because he found he was starving, too. 

"Of course you can, poppet," his mum laughed, eyes still wet with tears. "We'll have jelly, too. Just don't ever run away again. Alright? Don't ever do anything like that again."

Louis nodded, sniffling. "Sorry, Mum. I won't."

He dreamed about graveyards every so often until he was sixteen. After that, the dreams changed into nightmares, few and far between, but they almost always ended in a fiery ball of flames.

 

***

 

Smoke.

Louis takes a hefty sniff, almost sneezing in the process.

Yeah. He can definitely smell smoke. And the residue of something sweet mixed with hints of something else even less pleasant. He wrinkles his nose against the smooth surface of the kitchen counter, hands shielding his head. It’s an earthy, musky scent. Sort of like the damp smell after it’s just rained. But. Smoke. Something has been set alight, wafting around the kitchen.

Which is… worrying.

But he’s not quite ready to lift his head and face Harry yet, nor is he quite ready to take a glimpse into the weirdness that is Harry’s eyes, knowing that he’s not entirely… _ordinary_.

_‘I’m a witch.’_

He starts to giggle. Manically. As in hearty, full-on, belly laughs that begin to take over his entire body, thrumming through his limbs, have him shaking with it, spluttering all over the counter, manic. Becauseꟷ

Witchcraft. Magic. Real. Spells. Harry. Dreams. Blood.

Petals. Roses. Eyes. Colours.

_Witch. Harry._

Clearly his mind’s a jumbled cluster of ridiculous, disjointedꟷ _things_ , and there’s a strange boy standing in his kitchen who's told him magic is real, and Louis can’t string a single, coherent thought together. He’s tired, his head is pounding, and didn’t he agree to go on a road trip with this boy as well?

Oh, god.

Who’s to say this is even really happening? How can Louis really be sure this isn’t another one of his zoned-out episodes? He’s dreamt up some crazy shit these past few months, years, even. Maybe his imagination has run its wildest ideas by him yet and he’s actually dreaming up this entire scenario. It’s an incredibly detailed dream, he’ll give himself that, but then again, all his other dreams have been scarily descriptive, right down to strong, vivid smells.

He can’t trust his own mind right now.

He needs sleep.

Yes.

Any minute now, he’ll wake up, find his face in a bowl of cornflakes and he’ll get on with deciding what he’s going to do for the next ten days home alone.

Yep. He simply _imagined_ Harry climbing out of his window and bantering about superheroes and crying and looking like something out of an artistic, coming-of-age movie, pushed him into confessing to being a _witch_ of all things just to explain to himself why he’s so absolutely infatuated by Harry, to reason why he was so sure there was something special about him, special (and fit) enough to have had him point-blank gawping at him through chip shop windows and through his own as the curly-haired boy cried in his garden while it rained next door. He was curious about him, interested to an unhealthy degree, wanted to prod around and get to know all the hidden pieces of Harry’s mind and personality that were overflowing, teetering on the surface in fragments, almost close enough for Louis to grab onto, unravel, loosen and then he’d befriend Harry, have him over for tea that was really just the leftover lasagne his mum made and they’d eat it out of the dish on his bedroom floor, listen to the box of records and cassette tapes she’d kept since the seventies. And they’d become fast friends, meet each other at the park at the same time every day, sneak into each other’s bedrooms through the open window left ajar at night, sleep side by side andꟷ

Nope, he can still smell burning.

Fuck. What the hell was that. Okay. Right, then.

Not dreaming, it is.

“Umm,” he hears Harry basically  _purr_ , which, _fuck_ , his deep voice reverberates against the melting walls of Louis’ disaster of a brain and plays around with his insides, his gut feeling like mush, like it's a can of Coke that's been shaken vigorously until it fizzes everywhere when you take off the lid. And that’s it. He’s liquefied his defences. Out go the few more seconds he needed to soak in this… discovery, flounder (or wallow) in these fucking mental gymnastics he’s having to participate in, because _magic_ , apparently, is _real_.

Okay.

Cool.

“Uh... Louis? Are you okay?” A pause. “I’m sorry,” Harry says, entirely too sincere for Louis’ weakening heart, and much too loud, a jarring noise in a silence practically ornamented on egg shells. (Apart from that leaky tap).

(Just minding its own business.) (Dripping.) (The tap doesn’t have to worry about what it means to know a real-life witch and what the consequences might be of that.)

“Something went wrong.”

Uh huh. Something has, but Louis’ not sure what.

“You’re really a witch?” he finds himself blurting out instead, still speaking to the faux-marble surface of the counter, the sentence sounding silly out loud.

“Yeah,” Harry drawls slowly. “Howꟷhow are you feeling about that? Because, um. We should probably really talk about this? It's not exactly a common thing to hear, right?" He starts to chuckle nervously, cheeks aflame and shifting incessantly on the spot, fingers unable to keep still, jerking and jolting in tiny increments as he waits for Louis' response, likely convinced Louis is about to hurl all sorts of names and accusations at him again. The thought lies acrid, horrid, between his eyes, because he doesn't want to make Harry feel even more of a weirdo than he's probably made Harry feel already, but he can't string together much of anything right now, not while his head is hell bent on pounding with static noise.

All Louis can manage is a dry swallow around his scratchy throat, squashing the laugh that’s threatening to rudely erupt in his voice box. He really doesn’t want to hurt Harry’s feelings for the umpteenth time this evening, morning, whatever day it is. “Pretty grand,” he shrugs dryly.

"Do you have any questions?" Harry asks quietly, voice hesitant and tinged with apprehension. 

As it goes, Louis can't make his limbs move, let alone instruct his brain to use his mouth.

“Hey, listen, just so you know, I _swear_  that wasn’t meant to happen,” Harry says, sounding like he’s having to scrape out his words through a thick cloud of smoke, an edge of panic accentuating his wavering tone. “I wasn’t trying to scare you. It was a complete surprise to me too. I didn’t even put in six strands of a relative’s hair yet.”

 _Hair what now_?

Louis blinks one eye open, shooting upright so fast he gets a head rush, to find that the windows have been flung open, the blinds rolled up to the ceiling and stubs of what looks like wet, grey sand are stuck to the walls. It’s significantly darker too, the kitchen awash in grey light, every lightbulb having gone out.

And Harry.

Harry is observing him from behind the kitchen counter, plush lips caught tightly between his insufferably adorable teeth, his wide eyes a clear green and looking ominously regretful. They take big, slow, ethereal blinks (if there ever was such a thing as a pretty boy blinking in an ethereal manner), one of his pale hands still clutching onto the small, now virtually empty bottle of what was maroon liquid for support, as though he’s dreading Louis’ reaction.

The black marble bowl in front of him is covered in sludgy lumps of a dark substance that resembles what’s currently decorating the kitchen walls and cupboards. It’s a mess.

“Excuse me? Six strands of what?”

“A relative’s hair?” Harry repeats calmly, like that’s not bizarre in any way whatsoever.

"Right," he says blankly. "Obviously."

"Sorry. I keep forgetting this would sound weird to you," Harry grimaces.

There's a shirt stretch of silence. And then:

“Why six?” Louis finds himself asking. Because he might as well.

“For the six senses.”

Louis blinks. “There’s five senses, though.”

“Mm, not for witches.” He shakes his head. “We have the Sight. That’s the sixth of the senses.”

“The sixth sense?”

“Yep,” Harry smiles brightly, pleased as punch he’s able to explain this to Louis. He’s smiling like he’s a human sunbeam. An actual sunbeam.

“The Sight?”

“It’s the ability that witches have to be able to see through one’s true form, like, spirits, demons, stuff like that.”

“Sweet lord,” Louis whispers through a sigh, drawn-out and dramatically sorrowful.

Harry stares worriedly, bottom lip pulled back between his teeth, denting the flesh so hard that Louis thinks he's about to draw blood from it any second. "Okay?"

"Fine," Louis says instantly.

"Okay," Harry replies quietly. And no. Louis wants that smile back.

“So. Um.” Louis fiddles with his fringe awkwardly. “So is it easy to make mistakes when mixingꟷumꟷcasting… spells?” he asks, feeling ten types of ridiculous that this is a serious conversation that they’re having but wanting to say anything that might wipe that anxious look off Harry’s face.

It takes a good few seconds for Harry to resume blinking, freezing completely, demonstrating a live malfunction like his GameBoy likes to grace him with every ten minutes.  

“Uh. Honestly? I’m still learning. I guess you could say I’m an apprentice at the moment. Still a beginner witch. I’ve had magic and the ability to use it my whole life, we're all born that way, but we’re only officially taught how to use it properly when we turn sixteen, when we're of an age that we can fully grasp what we’re doing and what the dangers are when using it."

Louis nods. “Makes sense.”

There’s a stretch of awkward silence, an uneasy flash in the glowing, luminescent orbs that are in fact Harry’s eyes boring into him. Louis’ stomach tightens uncomfortably, his eyelashes all but practically fluttering at him. Jesus. He blinks to snap himself out of it. Embarrassing.

“Could you show me?” he says. 

“What?”

“Um. Something else. Do something else to show me.”

Louis doesn’t even know what he wants to see Harry do. (Maybe he just wants to make absolutely sure his drinks weren’t spiked earlier.)

“I just need to know for sure that I’m not dreaming,” he smiles. It’s surprisingly easy to do considering what a hysterical, dazed mess he is right now.

Harry watches him cautiously.

“You want me to demonstrate an incantation to prove to you what I am?” His tone is gentle, probing, so soft and careful that Louis believes him. No questions. But there’s a niggling curiosity that begs Louis to ask. Just to make sure.

“Yes. Please. If that’sꟷI mean, if youꟷcan?”

“Of course I can,” Harry says immediately. He bites his lip.

A stunned laugh bubbles up the column of Louis’ throat.

“Okay, then. Show me.”

“Yeah?” Harry says, brows pinched. It’s adorable, really. His cheeks are flushed a dark red. And dear god, Louis is _so_ in too deep.

“Yeah, yeah, go ahead. It’s fine. I’m not going to run out the door screaming, I promise.”

Harry huffs out a small laugh. Louis smiles.

“Right, okay.” Harry lets go of a long, slightly wavering exhale before closing his eyes, his eyelids shimmery and smooth and Louis sorta wants to run his thumb delicately along one (be quiet, brain), a deep, concentrated crease denting the milky skin between his brows. He slowly flips his hand over, palm up, and with his arm outstretched, just about reaching Louis’ chest. His spindly fingers curl inwards, almost touching the palm of his hand before they unexpectedly flick upwards in one sweeping, hasty motion and like the spark wheel on a lighter, there’s a thick blue flame dancing within Harry’s hand, miraculously held up by Harry’s fingertips.

Harry opens his eyes and they glow violet once more.

Louis’ breath audibly hitches and Harry’s eyes flash.

"How was that?" Harry smirks, the flames instantly dissolving as he scrunches his hand into a fist.

And that was… "Yeah. Good," Louis stares. "That was... yeah."

Harry beams, proud.

That was certainly not human. That was _magic._ Oh, dear god.

"Not too freaked out so far?" Harry asks, eyes round.

Louis smiles his answer.

Harry beams back.

"Why did you choose to tell me?" Louis blurts out after another few moments of silence, head stuffed with a copious amount of cotton wool and wonder and a repetitive chant of _holy fuck_. He feels weightless, giddy, almost.

This whole thing is just _weird_. But it’s also exciting? And frightening? And look, most of Louis’ life has always been just… weird, really. Unexplainable, unsettling, eerie things have happened to Louis over the years, starting from when he was a small child. He’d freak his mother the fuck out at times, and if there were legitimate _reasons_ why those odd things happened to him, maybe it all does make sense?

Witchcraft. And it makes sense to Louis. That this sort of otherworldly thing would exist. He’s always been interested in the paranormal, in fantasy elements, wanted the idea so badly to be real… but then doesn’t everyone wish there was more to life than what we're shown, what we can see? That magic really existed? Sprinkling some wondrous and enchanting otherness on an otherwise ordinary, mundane world.

Like there’s supposed to be this world on the other side of this one, except actually, isn’t it on the same side? Living among us? Non-magical humans and humans with magic and everything in between co-existing like all the worlds Louis reads about in books. And Louis is aware he’s probably making no sense himself, flitting to one extreme and back again, a million conflicting emotions and thoughts fighting each other, but what he’s trying to say is:

Louis can believe this. He can believe that there’s other beings and abilities and skills and otherwise implausible, extraordinary things out there, things that he has no idea about, that not many people do, and he’s fully expecting knowing Harry to become a lot weirder, and stranger, and dare he say, creepier. And to be honest, Louis welcomes it. Might as well let things get weirder, right? Especially if he gets to be around Harry more. (And let’s face it, normality shot right out the window the moment Harry arrived next door to Louis’ house, so.)

And Harry’s still looking at him, face imploring, tuned into Louis’ every aborted move and change in his expressions, and he even seems a little scared as he watches Louis silently, waiting for him to elaborate.

Ha. Harry’s scared of _Louis_. As though _he’s_ not the one with non-mortal powers and whatever else.

"About you being... you know,” Louis continues. “How come you’ve trusted me enough to tell me this? I mean, Harry, you’re aꟷ” Louis face heats up at his inability to say the word. Say what’s thinking. What he was yelling only minutes ago.

Harry’s lips quirk, the rest of his face calm and watchful. "A witch?"

"Yeah," Louis nods, pulling away from Harry's intense gaze.

And now Louis' a part of whatever is going on with Harry, and for the life of him, Louis can't think of a single reason why he should ask Harry to leave, or stay away himself.

“And that’s… for me..." He starts to laugh. "This is...it’s mad, Harry. You’re telling me all the stories I read, the fantasy books, about witches and wizards and magic and cauldrons and spells and potions. That’s based on… truth? Real life? That’s huge, Harry. That’sꟷit’sꟷit’s just fucking huge! It’s massive. This boring planet is actually home to all of this, too?”

“Well. I wouldn’t say our world is boring,” Harry replies earnestly, contemplative. “There’s so many things that are magical and brilliant and lovely in their own way; they end up having their own magic about them, however ‘normal’ they might seem. Biology and evolution and life, that’s magic. Everything that makes it up, the science of it, the infinite atoms and cells and physics that brings it all together, that’s pretty amazing?”

Louis stays quiet. “Wow. Yeah, you’re right. I guess that’s another kind of magic.”

“But, yes. The one I’m familiar with, that’s been passed down to me through my ancestors. Witchcraft is an actual practice that has real consequences and results. That’s true. It exists and I’m," Harry chuckles," well, real.”

“Okay,” Louis nods slowly, feeling dizzy and like he needs to sit down. He slumps into a chair at the kitchen table. “Jesus Christ, this is unbelievable.”

“I know it’s a lot to take in.” Harry sighs out a shuddery breath. “Andꟷyou asked me why I decided to tell you. Well, okay, so, this might sound a bit… weird, maybe?”

“Weirder than you telling me you’re a witch and that magic is real?”

Now it’s Harry’s turn for his face to heat up further, lips the colour of rubies. Louis’ gaze falls to them, heart-shaped and like something out of a fairytale. A thick, sleek curl droops into his eyes and Louis itches to step forward and push it away for him. Because apparently, even after telling Louis some eyebrow-raising, nonsensical, life-changing news, Louis wants to touch him, incessantly, and as much as Harry will allow. “Well. I see your point,” he chuckles lightly. “But, uh. See, as soon as we got here, I saw you sitting on your driveway, talking to this blonde boy and IꟷI just knew?”

Louis’ chest is suddenly home to an overbearing, overexcited heart, pounding behind his ribs at an alarming rate.

“Knew what?”

“That I feltꟷI wanted to know about you? And it sounds silly, but I felt like I already did know you? Somehow? Like, we were connected in some way, in another life maybeꟷ” Harry aborts his sentence, eyes widening briefly, but continuing, “ꟷum, andꟷ” He laughs softly, grinning, “and then the rose bulbs started growing so quickly, like as soon as mum planted them, and I realisedꟷ” Harry’s mouth snaps shut, eyes very wide this time.

“What?”

Harry squeezes his eyes shut, grimacing in embarrassment. “Fuck,” he whispers. “Um, nothing. Nevermind. What I’m saying is I immediately wanted to be friends with you and I really hope we couldꟷcan?”

Louis doesn’t say anything in response, but he smiles nonetheless, enough to make his eyes crinkle in the corners which seems to spur Harry on, give him hope, and returns Louis’ smile with a happy, broad smile of his own, dimples popping on each rosy cheek.

Louis clears his throat. “So, it’s definitely _witch_ , then?” he wonders aloud, curious. “That you call yourself, I mean. You’re not a,” he clicks his fingers, “a wiccan?”

“Uh, no. A wiccan, as in Wicca, is a religious movement. Pagan Witchcraft. But without the actual magic.” His cheeks are aflame. 

“You’re not offending  _me_ , mate,” Louis reminds him, wanting to laugh at Harry’s worry of causing offence to everyday witches.

“It’s just, from our understanding, to them it's more of a harmonious and spiritual way of life? They have their own reinventions of rituals and beliefs derived from a variety of religious traditions, and it's their way of being more in tune with nature around them? They’re different things. Wicca is a religion and Witchcraft is a practice. Our witches are people who practice witchcraft with our natural abilities that we're born with. So magic is a practice to us, but it’s also fundamentally who we are, too.” He pauses, pinching his bottom lip with his fingers. “Although we do use Pagan rituals throughout some of the spells that we use and practice, and we use the cycles of the Moon, also, so it’s kind of a mix of the two, I guess.”

“Okay. So your family areꟷ”

“I’m from a long line of witches over generations.”

“And magic runs through your blood?”

“Mm-hmm. It’s not just thinking or feeling like you can cast spells with a sense of belief or spirituality? Like, some of you do that. Some of you, as in non-magical people, consider yourself white witches, right? And like, you’ll use Pagan practices and cast spells with herbs and household objects and the power of thought and spirituality and the elements are part of your daily life. They’re based on ancient traditions of Witchcraft, and they’re in tune with the divine, nature, everything around them. The elements. Which is very similar to what we do, too. But we can cast spells that are moreꟷsolid, if you like. They have an unavoidable cause and effect. You would consider that type of craftꟷwhat you can see and think and feelꟷmagic. And that’s what it is to us.”

“Magic,” Louis repeats quietly.

Harry nods his affirmation. “Magic has always existed in this world, Louis, in everything, but so many people just choose not to see it. Everyday folk like yourself”ꟷLouis lets out a surprised snortꟷ“only think of it as a fantasy trope in stories and myths. It’s imaginary to you. A nice thought. A fairytale. But magic is our lifeblood. It’s our reality. It's real.”

“So, you’re like a warlock orꟷ” Louis clears his throat, pushing down the absurdity of it all. “A _wizard_?”

Harry’s mouth quirks in the corner and Louis feels his cheeks burn. “We don’t use gendered terms. The term ‘witch’ applies to any of us with blood magic. Men, women, whatever they identify as. We’re all witches,” he says, tone proud.

Louis exhales heavily, overwhelmed and light-headed and on the verge of bursting into hysterics again. “Okay. That’s… cool.”

Harry’s face flushes, and he begins to fidget. “Louis. Really. I don’t know quite what happened with the spell I was trying to attempt and botched completely, but I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, setting down the bottle at last. “That was a complete accident. IꟷI didn’t think this would react like that.” He glances down at the large book in front of him, brows pinched in puzzlement. “You know, with theꟷuhꟷthe mess,” he says, voice extremely apologetic. “Am I making any sense at all? I don’t mean to overwhelm you with information that doesn’t even seem like it’sꟷwell, happening.”

Harry smiles, grimaces more like.

And it’s really, actually funny and so surreal, because he looks so young and unassuming and _awkward_. An otherwise regular teenager in his endearing clothes and colourful accessories. A head of sleek, chocolate-drenched curls falling into his eyes, floppy and prettily. Features and limbs perhaps a little too big for his slight, sinewy frame.

A somewhat odd, slightly eccentric boy with his ancient books and his tarot cards and his different bracelets with birthstones and astrological shapes attached to the string and material.

A boy Louis was desperate to know, to befriend, toꟷokay, yes.

To kiss. That was a definite drive in his unspoken mission to get to know Harry.

Harry. Who likes cats, who prefers using his bike as a form of transportation rather than taking the bus, who cannot for the life of him walk in a straight line, and who blushes furiously when met with Louis’ likely overly enthusiastic smiles.

Harry. Who is also a witch.

Harry’s a real-life, magic-possessing _witch._

Holy… _god_?

And that’s… amazing? Terrifying. Incredible. Or just completely ridiculous because Louis likes to read the fucking _Harry Potter_ books and here’s Harry, mixing potions and reading from spell books and he isn’t dreaming.

Louis’ head is about to explode. Because this is exciting, right? Or he’s going to die because he knows about this.

It could really go either way.

(But he supposes whether or not he ends up dead is a good enough deduction to go on and bonus points if he can still make that decision when he becomes a ghost that haunts Harry for dragging him into his supernatural life.)

He stands, wandering back over to Harry, who still hasn’t left the counter.

“Is that aꟷ” Louis shifts his weight on his opposite side, leaning in slightly closer to Harry, attempting to feebly disguise the movement with his hand, itching a spot at the back of his neck, pointing to the heavy, open book in front of Harry. “It’s a spell book, right? Kind of like a witch’s handbook, yeah? Or is that just in films?” he smirks.

“Um, no. That bit is still the same,” Harry nods, face poised in sort of impressed interest, smile pressed between a pair of full lips stained like red wine. Louis averts his gaze. And Harry totally notices. Shit. “It has everything we need to know inside it. A textbook of magic. It contains spells, charms, instructions for performing them and other things like rituals, summoning certain entities, but we don’t usually do that. That’s more on the, uh… darker side of magic that I’ve been taught not to play with.”

“Like, how to summon demons and angels and the rest? Bring people back from the dead?”

Harry jerks his head once, humming, face unreadable.

Huh.

Maybe Louis should steer clear of demon talk. It’s not like he wants to meet spirits from the other side of anything. Watching Harry cast magic would be enough to ignite fear into his bones, thanks.

(And also, would be really fucking cool.)

“Yeah, I’ve seen you lugging it around a lot, pouring through it. With your mates, in the café and that.” He shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant about it all, because, god, it absolutely sounds like Louis watches him all the time, like a right little stalker. God. “You call it a, um, a Grimoire? Is that right?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, in what seems like a breath of pride. “That’s exactly what we call it.” Harry’s face breaks into a pleased smile.

Louis flushes, opens his mouth to speak, but then he really takes in the mess of the kitchen for the first time since he blinked his eyes open.

He blinks rapidly at the shattered, countless shards of glass from the smashed lightbulbs that are spread out on the side counters and glittering all over the kitchen tiles. He takes a step back; his trainer crunches the already broken glass.

(God, his mother is going to kill him if a dangerous spell doesn’t get there first.)

The hollow sound of the tap dripping into the plastic sink bowl is all that fills the otherwise tense silence. It sets Louis' muscles on edge but other than that... Louis is curious. Very curious. 

Their eyes lock, and Louis feels breathless under the burn of Harry’s stare. The other boy’s face is pale with the remnants of exhaustion, a ring of gold now circling each of his dilated pupils. He’s mesmerising, dark eyelashes fanning out on the pale skin below the red-rimmed beds of his eyes, like shadowy trails of glitter in the sunlight, watching Louis with a faraway look in his eyes.

Louis feels dizzy, the urge to inspect every ounce of his head at the forefront of his hectic thoughts.

He suddenly wants to know _everything._

“So, um. What were you using it for?” Louis asks dazedly. “Like, what were you trying to do?”

Harry looks caught, eyes wide and glossy. Louis’ hearts beats a bit faster, leaning in even closer. “I was trying to cast a location spell.”

“For?”

“To find my aunt.”

“Right," Louis nods. "But I thought you said you know where she lives?”

“I do, but I don’t know that she’ll be there. In fact, I know she’s not there, and that worries me. Because Iꟷ” Harry sighs hopelessly. “The thing I did that I was telling you about? That my mum can’t know I’ve done? I’ve sort ofꟷ I was looking for something that I’d been told to find. I was told it was important. And I shouldn’t have done it because I _knew_ there was something that didn’t feel right about it.” Harry’s eyes drift away from Louis, momentarily lost in another moment, a flash of a memory. “But I did it anyway. Because I trusted him,” he says, eyes sliding back to Louis, “so I didn’t think I was doing anything wrongꟷ But she's my aunt. My family. I should have listened to her.”

Harry grimaces, eyes pooling with guiltiness. “I was wrong, though, and nowꟷ”

_‘But I trusted him.’_

Who is he talking about? Louis’ blood is thrumming with the urge to know more, and maybe he feels a bit suspicious of this _him_ , a protectiveness for Harry rearing its head in Louis already. Bit premature, probably, but in Louis’ opinion, Harry, so far, seems like he could be too trusting of people at times? Probably the reason he’s in this predicament right now. And what was it again?

“Who did you trust?”

Harry’s lip is caught back between his front teeth, hands clasped behind his back like he’s a school boy, nervously awaiting the headteacher’s stern words and a letter home to his parents. His eyes are huge, round like saucers, a crease denting his milky forehead, fringe brushed away to curl around his ears.

It seems like Harry isn’t going to answer, but then, “Someone who was meant to be my tutor. I think he’s betrayed me and my family, and my mum doesn’t know, and I think it’s my fault, because if I hadn’t given himꟷ”

Louis shuffles closer letting his arm press against Harry’s shoulder. Harry seems to be fixated on the contact for a moment, where the fabric of their t-shirts meet. “Um.”

Louis nods for him to continue.

Harry stares at Louis for one heady moment, and Louis very nearly almost leans in, but he doesn’t, because that would beꟷnot the right time right now. Ahem.

Harry lowers his gaze, expression displeased. “IꟷI involuntarily ended up casting a spell.” Harry must see something in Louis’ face that causes his face to fall ever further because then:

“I _know_ ,” he practically wails. “I _know_  it doesn’t make sense. And if I explained this to my mother, she wouldn’t believe me either. But I read from something I shouldn't have read aloud. That’s kind of the selling point in casting a spell that works, see. But you need all the ingredients too. And I didn’t have them, so I thought it was harmless. You can’t cast a proper spell without all the elements needed. But it must have been dark magic, because now I’ve apparently reignited aꟷ” Harry pauses, his eyes huge and penetrating, clearly trying to figure out if what he’s telling Louis is going to go down like a led balloon or not.

“Go on,” Louis urges gently.

“I sort of accidentally restarted a curse that was placed upon my family centuries ago. It runs through our bloodline up to the present day, ending with me. And it's surely going to directly affect me, but it will also have other consequences and just, yeah. I was already arguing with my mum about what spells I'm allowed to study and how I should be more careful with my magic and..."

Harry looks unsure, fidgeting with his bracelets. “But it was an accident, a stupid mistake,” he says, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself more than he is Louis, frowning deeply.

“You’ve accidentally cursed yourself?”

“Basically.” Harry's expression is miserable. "And I don't even know what the curse is."

 _Cursed._ Curses. They exist too. Great. Excellent. This isn't at all getting creepy.

Louis stays quiet, trying to wrap his head around what’s even going on here on this night. Jesus.

“You still believe me, right?” Harry asks him worriedly, inspecting Louis’ face closely. “I know this must soundꟷ”

“Mad?” Louis supplies with a grin.

Harry smiles, small and tentative. “Yeah. Pretty much, like, the highest possible point on the What The Hell Is Going On Meter?”

“Just a teeny bit, yeah,” Louis agrees, wheezing. It causes Harry’s smile to grow, widening to the point of matching Louis’ grin with his own, the corners of his eyes crinkling at his watches Louis laugh. “This really wasn’t how I envisioned my evening going, you know.”

“I can’t imagine it was, no. I know this is a lot to take in."

“Crazy,” Louis breathes quietly. “Not that I’m calling you crazy!” he quickly corrects. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Harry smiles. “I’m just glad you haven’t run out on me yet. Or kicked me out.”

“Well, that depends.”

Harry’s smile falters. “On what?”

“Well, on what this curse entails. Because if there’s even a slight chance that I might suffer a fatality, Harry, then I am outta here,” he jokes, laughing.

Harry does not laugh. In fact, his smile has dropped off the face of the earth and he seems to have paled considerably, bowing his head and staring intently at the chaos on the worktop, his body stiff and guarded.

“Sorry, haveꟷhave I hit a nerve?” Louis winces.

Harry stills, mouth set in a firm line, but he shakes his head ever so slightly. Louis frowns at Harry’s response.

He continues to stay quiet and Louis is about to go around the counter and pull him into a reassuring hug, the urge to reach out too overwhelming to ignore and almost winning out over the voice in Louis’ head telling him to give Harry some respectful space when Harry finally looks at him.

Their eyes meet and entwine like a tangle of string, some unnameable tension saturating the air, tying them together.

Louis waits patiently for Harry, and the other boy finally opens his mouth to speak before he then seems to think better of it, shaking his head and huffing out what Louis interprets as a forced laugh.

“Are you allowed to tell me?” Louis asks softly.

Now Harry really looks like a deer caught in the headlights, looking like he’s on the verge of legging it out the door.

Then he sees Harry’s left hand, curled in on itself towards his stomach. The bottom of his palm has been sliced open. Louis has no idea how he did it, but he spots a pocket knife atop the worktop next to the bowl and a split acorn or something like it. Come to think of it, Harry is no longer wearing his leather jacket. He hadn’t even noticed him take it off.

“Harry," Louis yelps. "You’re bleeding.”

Harry lifts his hand, unhurried, observing it with indifference. “Oh,” is all he says meekly, seeking Louis' gaze again.

 _Oh?_ The heel of his hand is covered in _blood._ And all he says is "oh".

Honestly. It’s even _dripping._

“Jesus, that’s a massive gash, Harry!” he says shrilly, blindly overcome with concern. “How did you not feel that happen? " Harry's mouth twitches with indifference. "How _did_ it happen?” he frowns, studying him closely, fixing him with a look of disapproval. “Come ‘ere. I’ll get you the first aid kit.”

He dashes over to the top drawer under the cupboards that house all of their kitchenware, tugging down the box full of plasters, bandages and creams that his mum keeps tucked away in case of little accidents, namely Amy taking a rough and tumble when she gets too excited.

Harry stays standing, following Louis’ movements intently as Louis opens the box, collecting some cotton wool buds and a particularly large plaster.

“What?” Louis murmurs as he inspects the contents, wandering back over to Harry, who finally moves back to the kitchen table, perched on the edge of a chair, eyes still firmly locked on Louis. It feels like a million times headier all of a sudden, Louis' fingers hovering closely over Harry's.

“Huh?” Harry eloquently replies, unblinkingly, fixing those orbs he calls eyes to Louis, intense, unwavering, dreamy.

Louis’ a bit short of breath.

(Does he have to look at him like this? It’s distracting.)

“You’re staring,” he smirks, relishing in the dark blush that instantly materialises on each of Harry’s cheeks. “Hm, I’m not sure this will quite fit,” he notes, sizing up the length of the cut along Harry’s palm and the size of the plaster he has in his hands. He gets up again to fish out a bowl and fills it with warm water from the tap. He brings it over, placing it next to the messy traces of Harry's botched spell, marks and drops of grey liquid that's drying quickly, sticking to the table's pine surface.

Harry's spell. Wow. That’s a weird thing to say normally. He didn't even flinch that time. (Though, he’s not exactly witnessed Harry actually casting any spells as of yet, bar the literal flames pouring out of Harry's fingertips.)

He can’t say for sure he’s not going to have a mini breakdown somewhere down the line, depending on how mad it gets, but he’s certainly not going anywhere.

He’s decided.

“Right, hold out your hand for me," Louis instructs as he takes the chair next to him. Harry does, and Louis gently grips Harry’s wrist, supporting his palm with his thumb, dabbing lightly with a soaked cotton wool bud over the wound. "Did you slice something when I wasn't looking?" Louis asks rather gruffly, throat suddenly dry as he notices there’s a faint tremor in Harry’s hand as Louis works on getting rid of most of the blood, their skin softly brushing.

No electric shocks this time, though. 

Which. Strange.

(He'll have to ask Harry about that one.)

"I needed some of my blood for the spell. It's an integral ingredient in casting a location spell. It can't really be done if you aren't related to the person you're searching for."

"Oh. That makes sense."

"But, I dunno. It sparked something, I guess? Something was blocking me, I think, which is why that reaction happened. It's my current theory, anyway."

"You think someone's trying to stop you from finding her?" Louis wonders, pressing a bit firmer on the gash to soak up another bead of blood.

Harry hisses faintly. 

"Sorry," he hastily apologises.

"I'm fine," Harry smiles. "Just being a baby."

Louis snorts. "I have experience in dealing with babies, so don't worry about that."

Harry seems to consider something, inspecting Louis' face intently. He does that a lot. It makes Louis' tummy flutter every time. "Your sister likes to play in our garden a lot," he informs him. Louis looks up from Harry's hand. 

"Does she?" Louis' brows furrow. This is the first he's heard of it. "Amy does?"

"Yeah. Quite often, actually. Didn't you know?" Harry asks, face mirroring Louis' own confused expression.

"Uh, no. I didn't," Louis says, squeezing out a fresh ball of cotton wool. "She's failed to mention ever trespassing in our neighbours' garden."

"Oh, well, she doesn't get up to anything mischievous or anything," Harry assures him.

And yeah, Louis doubts that.

"She sometimes helps my mum plant a bulb or two in the garden, but she never stays for long. Always runs off as quick as lightning when your mum calls her. We just assumed she knew that she's climbed over a lot this summer. She's fascinated with the different colours of the roses," he chuckles. "Claims she's waiting for the fairies."

Louis smiles back. "Okay," he says, still a bit unconvinced that Amy hasn't been up to something. He'll check out her room for any stolen goods later. She has a bad habit of sneaking little keepsakes from people's houses. Honestly, it keeps Louis up at night at times. 

"Well, as long as she's not causing any trouble."

"No, she really doesn't, I promise. My mum enjoys her company." Harry's smile grows. "My older sisterꟷ" 

And just like that, Harry closes off, posture stiffening as he straightens his slouch, eyes clouding over with a sadness that immediately alarms Louis. 

"Are you okay?" he asks gently.

There's an uncomfortable stretch of silence that makes Louis want to kick himself, even though he didn't actually ask anything intrusive that time. Harry's obviously started to talk about something he'd forgotten he didn't like to talk about.

"Harry?" he prods, voice soft.

That seems to jolt Harry out of his seemingly painful thoughts, eyes briefly widening, lost, before they settle back on Louis, slathering on a strained smile.

"Fine," he dismisses. "I think the cut's probably cleaned enough now?" he says, voice off-kilter but no less kind. Louis feels a sharp pang in his chest as he studies the distracted look in his eyes.

"Yeah," he agrees, setting down the bowl. The water's already cooling, anyway. "I'll just put this on." He reaches for the a strip of kitchen towel he brought out and softly dabs the cleaned wound dry, the tension thick, sending a prickling sensation all over his skin.

He frowns, focusing on applying the plaster properly over the cut and then rolls off a long piece of bandage, wrapping it securely around Harry's slightly trembling hand.

Louis bites his lip, not resisting the next urge he has; he slips his hand into Harry's newly bandaged one, holding on loose enough that Harry can easily take it back if he wants to. But Harry only grips tighter, locking his eyes with Louis', surveying them with an intimacy that causes a flush to creep up Louis' neck to the tips of his ears. His chest is buzzing with the weight of Harry's stare.

He feels hot. Examined.

Harry's glowing green eyes continuing to look back, dotted with surprise, and the space between them feels charged in a way that's unfamiliar to Louis, new and exciting, heady and overwhelming.

And he desperately wants to lean in, press his lips to Harry's bitten raw mouth.

To brush the softness with his own. To know more, much more, feeling slightly breathless despite either of them having not moved even an inch.

But naturally he ruins the moment.

And chokes on his own breath.

Because of course he does.

He splutters and coughs and almost retches, violent, vigorously shaking his head when Harry shoots up out of his chair, a panicked look on his face as he steps closer to pat his back, orꟷsomething, and Louis thinks he asks him a question but he can't hear over the sheer volume of his own coughing, blood rushing to his ears, eyes teary as he struggles to catch his breath.

He grabs hold of the chair and heaves, breathing in and out.

Jesus Christ, he's a mess. He must be as red as a tomato.

"Are you okay, Louis?" Harry's asking now, when that's exactly what Louis was seeking to find out about him, planting a hand on his shoulder, warm and solid.

"I'm good," he croaks, tears streaming down his face.

Another crackle and a powerful spark comes out of nowhere, setting alight the ceramic bowl on the counter's contents, the residue of Harry's blood mixed with the tar and liquid and herbs Harry had sprinkled in.

Harry appears startled, shoulders jumping and hands going up in the air beside his head.

Louis laughs.

"What just happened?" Harry breathes.

"You're _seriously_ asking _me_ that when you almost blew up my kitchen?"

"Hey," Harry whines. "I told you, it's likely a block that's been put on that spell and that was another aftershock."

"Harry, I'm joking." He grins at the other boy, is probably staring at him with too much affection already and what were they doing again?

God, he's exhausted. And going by the dark circles under Harry's eyes, he is too.

"Do you want some breakfast?"

Harry blinks for a good few seconds before he replies, uncertainly:

"Okay? Um. Yes, please?" 

Louis smiles, hands on his hips. "Good. First though, we have to clean up this mess."

"That I can do," Harry grins.

***

 

The next few hours whizz by in a blur of talking, cleaning, and eating. They talk more about Harry and when he was first told he was a witchꟷwhen he was six after he almost inadvertently used a hex on another little boy, intending on making him vomit frogs because he’d said he looked like oneꟷ(“You kind of do, though,” Louis had giggled. “How very dare you!” Harry laughed back, half in outrage and half in hilarity) and his mum and grandmother had had no choice but to explain to a six year-old (apparently former blonde) Harry, that when he felt anger or any kind of strong emotion, he should never think about bad things at the same time as pointing at people while he thought them, because Harry wasn’t like the other childrenꟷhe was a special little boy in a way that was considered an extraordinary gift and he shouldn’t be ungrateful, or break the secret, because then Hecate, the goddess of fairy magic, as they called her for Harry ("Goddess of Witchcraft" might have seemed a little too full-on for that age) would be very upset with Harry and she'd make it storm every day, and Harry wouldn't like that, because then he'd never get to go the park and try out the swings.

They discussed more about the artistry of Witchcraft itself in brief detail; Harry listed the types of ingredients they used, the differences between hexes, curses and spells. And Louis nodded on with rapt attention, asking questions every so often, which made Harry pause and smile, pleased to be asked, proud that Louis was picking up the odd thing himself, and stillꟷmuch to Harry's surpriseꟷcontent to stick with what Harry's told him.

He's a witch and Louis is entirely convinced, and in awe, of their existence. 

So. Since that had been seemingly sorted, and the kitchen was spotless (though Louis was still running on pure adrenaline right now, eager to take in as much information as possible while actually still teetering on the edge of hysteria over all of this), they had breakfast which consisted of basically everything left over in the fridge.

Before that, Harry had helped Louis get rid of the mess on the walls and the floor with a simple flick of his wrist that managed to sweep up all the dust by itself, efficiently and absolutely had Louis’ eyes glued to what was happening, barely able to conjure up a single blink. All Louis had to do was collect the pile in the middle of the floor with a dustpan and Harry and his witchery took care of the rest.

No one would have had the slightest inkling that the kitchen had been a disaster zone for Witchcraft gone wrong.

Harry seemed content and calm in Louis' presence, some of the weight he'd obviously been carrying on his shoulders lifted a tad. He perched himself on the edge of Louis' desk as Louis threw together a bag's worth of stuff, containing some extra underwear and two more t-shirts just in case. Oh. And a dress shirt. You know. Just in case, as well. And some toothpaste. Toothbrush. Deodorant. He wandered into the bathroom to retrieve those, hearing the creak of the floorboards where Harry was undoubtedly following.

“See,” Harry commented with an air of triumph. “And you made fun of me for packing a bag.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Um, yeah. You did.” Harry smiled easily and patted Louis’ hand, taking the empty washbag off the edge of the bath where Louis had it precariously balanced. He unzipped it and held it out for Louis to begin filling it with necessities.

“You know we’re not actually going on holiday abroad, don’t you, darling?” Louis said in a mocking posh voice.

Harry silenced him with a look, as though they'd been friends for ages and he knew all of Louis' acts. “You’ll be thanking me when your breath is beyond rank or when the van breaks down and we have to stay the night in one of the worst hostels somewhere dodgy.”

“Nah, the van is all I needꟷall _we_ need, _darling._ ” Part of Louis was afraid he was pushing it too much, that Harry hardly knew him and wouldn't take to this banter, but he needn't have worried at all.

“Shut up with the ‘ _darling_ ’s,” Harry said, mimicking Louis’ faux deep voice, grinning. Harry had become so much looser very quickly. Maybe it was because he knew he’d be getting out of the mess of his uneasy home environment. Or maybe he’d just decided to trust Louis. 

“No, I don’t think I will, _darling_.”

He threw blinding, glowing smiles Louis' way non-stop and Louis' heart stuttered and stopped and restarted all the while, returning them as best he could, head a cloud of swirling thunderstorms, the sunshine hesitatingly peeking out every now and then when Harry's bright mood was too much to ignore.

He could get used to this.

“Right, what next?” Harry yawns, treading down the stairs languidly after waiting for Louis to shower and then jumping in himself, but not before Louis had wrapped Harry's bandaged hand in cling film to keep it from getting wet. His hair falls in damp ringlets around his ears, and he’s dressed in a clean t-shirt, accentuating his narrow shoulders, his dungaree straps hanging at his hips, and he smells of Louis’ shampoo, saccharine, fresh and distinctly of _boy_ , and he’s oh so cute, Louis could actually cry real tears of… frustration.

(Rein it in, Louis, for the love of god.)

(At least wait a whole day to put _that_ on the table.)

“Well. You did want to get out on the road asap, right? And I mean, we might have to dodge your mum at this time in the morning,” he looks to Harry for confirmation, pouting his agreement, “but if you stay in the back, she won’t see you or even know you’re with me and we won’t be in deep shit, yeah?” Louis smirks, jumping lightly on the balls of his feet behind the counter.

Harry presses his lips together, lost in thought. Then he exhales from his spot perched on the edge of the dining table, and Louis sort of can’t believe that in a matter of hours, Harry’s here and practically acting like he owns the place. It makes him smile. Stupidly.

“Yeah, okay. Let’s do it.”

“Yeah? You’re still up for this?”

Harry grimaces a bit. “I justꟷI’m a bit scaredꟷ Like, I don’t want to put you in a situation you're not prepared for. It could be _dangerous_. You are aware of that, right?” he says, expression grave.

“No! I thought being a witch was all talking cats and a laugh track over you blowing your house up,” he quips.

Harry levels him with a serious look. “Louis. It’s not a game.” He pauses. “I know this all sounds like fun, but I’m fully expecting this to not have sunk in for you just yet, you know. You might feel okay about thisꟷsituationꟷ _now_ , butꟷ Look. There’s gonna be a point later where you’re likely gonna be regretting ever getting involved with me and my… stuff.”

Now it’s Louis’ turn to level Harry with his own unimpressed look.

“Harry.” He tilts his head, trying to ensnare Harry’s eyes, which have darted away to focus on the car that’s just driven by the window, "I hear what you’re saying and yeah, okay, you might be right on… some… pointsꟷah, ah!”ꟷHe holds up a hand as Harry clearly starts to protest, attempting to voice his now apparent concerns over Louis coming with himꟷ“No, but it’s my choice. If there’s risks, thanks for telling me, but I’m not a child, believe it or not.” He smirks. “I’m actually classed as a legal adult.” He raises his eyebrows haughtily, feigning nonchalance and authority. “And I’m willing to takeꟷwhatever happens.”

Harry just frowns, the beginnings of a glare about to take over.

“Louis. I don’t think you understand the gravitas of what you’re getting into. And now you’ve kind of worried me into thinking something bad’s going to happen.” He pouts grumpily, slumping and folding his arms close to his chest. “Knowing my luck, it will. God knows my mum keeps enough from me."

Louis rolls his eyes. “Hey, come on. But you were willing to take me with you before,” he points out.

“Yes, but without you knowing I’m a witch."

"You're a witch?!" 

Harry glares.

Louis laughs.

"You’d have been none the wiser because I wasn’t planning on telling you any details," Harry continues. "I was gonna lie the whole way there, create a sad backstory to keep your questions to a minimum, find my aunt, reverse the spell that ignited the curse and thenꟷI dunno. Drive back with you and… maybe even make you my friend along the way?” he adds as an afterthought, tone coy, flirtatious, if Louis didn’t know any better.

He clears his throat, ignoring the way Harry’s now swinging his ankles, hunched shoulders accommodating the sideways position of his head, basically batting his fucking eyelashes.

“But you changed your mind?”

“Yeah,” Harry says softly. “Although, now I’m not so sure that it wasn’t a pretty selfish thing to do…”

“I’m telling you it isn’t," Louis insists. "It's not like I made it easy for you to brush off. I'm too much of a suspicious person."

“But I didn’t want to keep this a secret on my own. That’s why I told you. Isn’t that selfish in itself?”

“Harry,” Louis laughs, “are you obsessed with ethics or something?"

Harry still looks concerned, pinching his lips with his fingertips. "I just... I don't want to have dragged you into this and... you know. What if something bad happens?"

"But why would it?" 

The sole of Harry's shoe scrapes the kitchen tiles.

"My mother's always drummed it into my head: 'no one can ever know your secret, Harry. They won't accept you. They won't understand. People are afraid of things they can't understand.' And... well, she's wrong on one hand, because you exist, but like, what if this does go wrong? I've never taken someone non-magical along with me before. My aunt knows a lot of morally questionable people, Louis. What if she's really in trouble and you get hurt and it'llꟷ"

"Harry," Louis says, walking over to him, planting his hands on Harry's bony shoulders. "Does your aunt know how to take care of herself? Do you feel safe when she's around?"

"Obviously," Harry says, affronted, brows furrowed. "She's the coolest, strongest, bravest person I know."

Louis smiles.

"Then I'm sure it's all going to be completelyꟷ”

The doorbell rings.

"What time is it?" Louis asks, frowning.

"Um. Just gone 9.15?" Harry drawls slowly, checking his watch.

"Oh. Maybe it's the postman."

Louis walks hurriedly into the hallway, squinting one eye to see into the peep hole on the front door. "Oh," he murmurs. Fantastic. "It's... not the postman."

"What?" Harry whispers, having followed right behind him. "Who is it?"

Louis swivels round to face him. He grimaces. "It's your mum."


	4. iv.

 

“My _mum_?” Harry whispers, gaping at Louis with horror. His face is written with such disbelief, it's as though he can’t imagine a single possible reason as to why his motherꟷwho lives right next doorꟷcould possibly be at the door, not even when he’s said himself that she’s bound to have heard the racket they’ve been making all night.

Louis just nods, plastering on what he hopes is his calming smile. “Hey, hey. Don’t worry, it’s fine. I’ll get rid of her,” he whispers back.

“No,” Harry hisses, crouching down despite the fact that he’s nowhere near visible to anyone on the other side of the door.

“No?”

“You can’t answer it,” Harry says, eyes widened.

The bell rings a second time and Louis ducks on instinct, aware that his own silhouette _is_  probably still visible, and Harry’s mum can totally see him standing in the hall right now.

Louis deflates his shoulders. “Shall I just answer it?” he mouths, hands outstretched towards Harry for an answer.

Harry widens his eyes further and vehemently shakes his head, mouthing back “no _”_ , needlessly waving his hands to gesture another definitive  _no_.

Louis starts moving forwards quietly, away from the door, back crouched over when the bell rings a third time. He stops abruptly, raising his eyebrows at Harry.

It rings a fourth time.

“She’s persistent, I’ll give her that,” Louis says, pushing his hair back across his forehead and rolling his eyes.

“Fuck,” Harry mutters, covering his face with his hands and tipping his head back. He uncovers his face after a moment and stares at the ground for another. He then lifts his head and drags his hands down his face, meeting Louis’ questioning gaze a little desperately, eyes whirring with panic.

“Okay, you’re gonna have to answer her.”

Harry’s eyes flick to the front door as Anne begins to  _knock_ now, his hands unable to stay still, fingertips raking through his hair and catching on his clothes, distracted. “But you have _not_  seen me, we're  _not_  friends and you've barely ever talked to me before, okay?” His tone leaves no room for doubt. He may as well poke his pointy finger in Louis’ chest while he’s at it.

(And here Louis thought his own mother was the most tenacious in this town.)

“Right,” Louis nods, a bit exasperated, a bit taken aback. He starts for the door, then stops, briefly turning to Harry, who’s still stood on the spot in front of him in the hallway, feet awkwardly turned inwards. “Uh, you might want to hide then, yeah?”

“Oh,” Harry says, scarpering the premises immediately.

Louis sighs, shaking his head, unfastening the deadlock and yanks the door open.

Harry’s mum is indeed standing on the doorstep, looking slightly out of sorts, her dressing gown loose, a fitted vest top and tartan pyjama bottoms underneath it. Her feet are in fluffy slippers and her eyes are wild, broad and glazed with anxiety.

Louis’ nerves pinch sharply as he slathers on a tentative smile.

“Hi!” she greets Louis before he does, far too cheerfully to match her grim demeanour, the tender shadows of dark ovals brushing the skin under her eyes. “Good morning! I’m Anne. It’s Louis, isn’t it?” Her somewhat haunted grin looks like it’s hurting her face.

“That’s right,” Louis nods. “Good morning, Anne.” His expression is likely obvious enough that it prompts Harry’s mother to slap an abrupt hand over her mouth. Louis flinches. God, she looks completely bedraggled, as though she hasn’t slept a single minute. His stomach gurgles, unsettled. He coughs quietly, barely audible, gaze straying to a car driving past the house, the sky a lovely pastel blue, holding a few scattered, disembodied clouds.

Kind of how he feels right now for some reason. Disembodied. Floaty.

He squints hard, attempting to blink away the moderate pressure that’s suddenly decided to press down on either side of his head.

He tries to focus on Anne, despite feeling himself begin to frown, the pressure growing.

“Oh, but you already know that, don’t you. Sorry.” She starts to laugh humourlessly, the belt of her blue dressing gown coming loose as she makes another aborted move with her gesticulative hand, wilted beside her waist, “and so sorry to bother you so early. You probably want to be sleeping in until midday since it’s the holidays, eh?”

She continues to fill the air with awkwardly placed laughter and Louis feels stiff, attempting to produce another smile, nonchalantly gazing back at her in the politest way he can manage while his temples are throbbing, one hand ruffling through his hair for something to do. “Oh, it’s fine. I was just getting up, anyway.”

Anne’s gaze is so zeroed in on Louis’ every movement, every twitch and change in his face. It’s uncomfortable. Louis grins too hard. It doesn’t do his head any favours.

“Oh! Well, that’s alright, then!” she continues enthusiastically as Louis stares. “Wouldn’t have wanted to wake you. Then again, you young boys, even the dead couldn’t wake you up from your sleep.” Her eyes seem to wander off, drifting away from Louis to focus on something in the distance. Or in her mind. Either way, she seems pretty distraught. Louis fights the urge to crane his head and instinctively search out Harry.

He unsubtly clears his throat. “Are you okay? Can I help you with anything?”

That seems to shake her out of her daze and she turns back to Louis, eyes settling on him a bit too intently.

“It’s just… I was wondering—” She pauses, regarding Louis closely, her gaze razor sharp as it practically sears into Louis. He blinks rapidly, nervousness creeping up his neck. Guilt gnaws at him, knowing Harry is in the next room, cocooned in his own house, and god, it’s like she _knows._ He’ll have to get Harry to reassure him that his mother can’t see through walls or sense his presence simply because she’s a witch. Because just what else can they do?

“Have you seen Harry, by any chance? Do you talk much? Are you friends?”

And there it is. What Harry told him flashes in Louis’ mind in big red neon letters.

“Uh, no,” he says in what he hopes is a believable manner, “I haven’t, and no, apart from the odd word or so in passing, we haven’t ever really spoken properly before.” He quiets, waits a beat to gauge how well that lie went down.

He stares at her, Anne steadily staring back. Her face doesn’t even fall. There’s just this frozen fake smile on her face.

“Oh,” is all she says, tone bland.

Uncomfortable. Oh, god. It’s so _uncomfortable. Goddamn Harry._

She’s got to know. She obviously knows.

“Sorry, is something wrong?” Louis croaks out. Fuck. She _knows._

But then Anne exhales, her breath laboured and jittery and her eyes are growing shiny. Her fingers absently trail over the pendants caught around her collarbone, thumbing the engraved metal and returning the pendants to rest against the top of her chest. Louis tracks the movement torpidly, weirdly fascinated with the gems and shapes. They oddly remind him of a pair he thinks he remembers from somewhere else, from some other time; it’s there, on the edge of his mind, his memories. But he can’t quite remember… and his eyes are fluttering, flickering closed and there’s a fire andꟷ

Anne clears her throat and Louis jolts out of his daze.

He meets Anne’s eyes and smiles encouragingly, small and quiet.

“That’s a shame. You see, Harry wasn’t in his room this morning, and I don’t knowꟷI thought maybe the two of you had become friends and that he might be with you?”

Her eyes flicker across Louis’ face intently, and Louis is certain it’s suspicion that speckles her gaze. He almost squirms, shifting his position at the door, his grip on the door tightening. He’s itching to shut it already.

“But—” She trails off, lost somewhere for a long moment, and then she plasters on a blinding smile which is without a doubt false as well. “I suppose it’s clear I’m obviously mistaken.”

Her tone says just about anything otherwise.

Louis smiles back tightly, clinging to the door frame too hard. (At this rate he’ll get a splinter.) “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help,” he says, effectively ending the conversation.

But still Anne carries on, and Louis starts to sweat.

“Are you sure you haven’t seen him at all? Not even in passing?”

Louis has to bite his cheek from snapping this time.

“Maybe you just forgot? Just a glimpse, perhaps? Seen him on his bike, or something? Anything at all? You must hang around the same places? It’s a small town. If you just tried toꟷ”

“Not that I can remember, I’m sorry,” Louis replies with finality, maybe a little tetchily now. Or a lot. Fuck.

Honestly, Harry’s mum just won’t give up. Maybe she’s scared Harry is about to get himself into trouble? Maybe she even knows what he’s done and what the curse entails? Either way, Louis is significantly more concerned.

“Okay,” Anne nods, resigned, but still holding his gaze. She seems to accept what Louis says and she smiles once more, a bit more genuine this time. “Thank you, Louis. I’m very sorry to bother you, love.” She turns to leave, folding her arms close to her chest, hunched over. The mannerism reminds him of Harry. She aborts her steps, facing Louis.

“Just. If you do see him at all…” Her voice wavers. Louis tries not to grimace, biting on his bottom lip inside his mouth. “Would you please tell me? I just need to know my boy is safe,” she says, her eyes glassy and pained and god, Louis feels so guilty. “That’s all.”

“Anne—”

“We haven’t been getting on very well recently, you see." She smiles, rueful and teary. "And I’m worried— I think that he might do something rash, something silly.”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Louis tries to reassure. “He might have just left early this morning. Gone for a bike ride?”

“He is an early riser,” Anne agrees distantly.

“Well, there you are, then.”

Anne shakes her head. “It’s just— Harry tends to act with his heart first, his emotions. He feels things so intensely and he needs to learn to control them—” Anne pointedly presses her lips together, taking a shaky breath, her mouth ajar as she exhales, attempting to hollow her cheeks to stop herself crying. (Another thing that reminds him of Harry. It’s unsettling that this is happening already. He frowns deeply at his stupidly fast-growing attachment.)

Louis is almost about to invite her inside for a cup of tea, anything not to watch her cry. He feels like a terrible person. Hiding out some poor woman's son in his house like a fugitive, lying to her about his whereabouts. Louis' coming back in another life as a cricket. That gets stepped on. “Do you want a cuddle?” he says on instinct.

Anne laughs wetly. “I’m fine, love.” A heavy pause. “You’re a sweet boy,” she says quietly, almost more to the atmosphere, to herself, rather than aiming the comment directly at Louis.

Then, in a blink, her demeanour suddenly perks up, momentarily alert, focused. It makes Louis jolt at the blatant contrast.

“Brooke.”

“I’m sorry?”

"Brooke," she repeats, barely a whisper, but Louis hears it. She shakes her head disapprovingly. 

She returns to her dazed state, staring into nothingness.

He frowns, disconcerted as he watches the woman retreat, making her away back to her own doorstep without another word. Something cold trickles down Louis’ spine, an indescribable feeling, strange and unsettling. Like it’s just  _there_ , on the edge of his memory.

But what memory? Why does it feel like he’s forgetting something?

“Um, Anne?”

“Yes?” she answers, just as she steps past the threshold, expectant. Hopeful.

“I’m sure Harry will turn up in no time, yeah? He’ll just have wandered off for a bit. He does seem to love that bike of his. He’s fine. I’m sure of it.” He tries a reassuring smile for good measure.

Anne doesn’t seem convinced.

“I hope so.” She shuts her door.

Louis sighs, shutting his own and stands there for a moment, a series of padded, awkward footsteps belonging to Harry nearing the hallway within seconds. 

Harry hesitantly pops his head around the wall. "Is she gone?"

Louis gives him a long, measured look, irritation prickling underneath his skin. "She’s frantic, Harry. Desperate to know where you are." He shakes his head. “Is hiding like this really such a good idea? Maybe if you just told her what’s happened, she could help you? Surely?”

Harry's features harden, the small dent between his brows transforming into a significant frown aimed at the floor. "She feels guilty, that’s why she’s desperate. Thinks I’m going to find out something she doesn’t want me to know.” He folds his arms, shoulders taut, the very picture of a disgruntled toddler, the straps of his dungarees still limp at his hips.

"She did mention that you haven't been getting on recently, like you’ve said,” Louis says carefully. “But… hey, at least she has some self-awareness? Maybe she just wants to make it up to you?”

Harry scoffs quietly, shaking his head, determined. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Louis,” he dismisses softly, walking back through to the kitchen with stiff shoulders.

"She seems sorry,” Louis prods as he follows, his attempts to seek out Harry’s gaze failing. “She’s worried, Harry. You weren’t in your bed this morning. Aren’t you going to at least let her know you’re alright and that you’re not lying in a dead heap in the woods somewhere?” He frowns, voice prickled with disapproval.

Harry’s face instantly softens at Louis’ tone. “I will,” he promises. “I’ll tell her where I am. Okay? I’m just… I’m gonna wait a bit until we’re already on the road. She’ll never let me out of her sight otherwise and then I won’t be able to do anything. I’ll call her from a phone box an hour in, or when we see one or something.” He shrugs half-heartedly. He’s quiet for a few moments, pensively staring out of the kitchen window.

“Right,” Louis utters quietly, studying the boy’s profile, washed with sunbeams, oddly struck with another inexplicable feeling of déjà vu which is getting really bloody old by now.

(Ugh, when will he stop feeling so weird?)

Harry’s eyes are imploring when they land back on Louis, speckled with uncertainty. “I’m not doing this to hurt her,” he insists. He sounds anxious, frustrated. Like he’s not sure if that’s exactly what he’s doing anyway, regardless of not intending to. “I just want to fix what I’ve done on my own. That’s all this is.”

“Are you sure you’re not just trying to punish her?” Louis asks, brows furrowing deeply.

Harry doesn’t respond, but his eyes flash with something like hurt.

And Louis probably isn’t doing a very good job of hiding his displeasure on his face, because Harry rapidly begins to redden, shuffling his feet awkwardly.

“Look, I know you think I’m being mean and unreasonable,” Harry says, speaking to the floor, pale, slender hands wringing together distractedly, “and I know she’s trying to protect me, but she’s kept things from me all my life. They were small things to begin with, for my own good, my safety. And I get that. But then they turned into bigger things. And I  _know_ , Louis. I know there’s something else, something really important that she’s choosing not to tell me, to the point where she’s telling other people to keep this secret for her too, and I’m mad about it, okay? She can’t do that. I’m eighteen. I’m a witch. I’m of age. She can’t keep doing this just because she thinks it’s protecting me. Because what if it’s not? What if it builds, and builds, and builds and then something terrible happens because of it? All because I didn’t know what was going on?” His cheeks are flushed with frustration, eyes glassy and wild.

He sounds like he has intense anxiety about this, whatever his mum’s kept him in the dark about. He sounds like it’s all he’s thought about for a long time, too.

Louis wonders what it could be.

_‘Brooke.’_

That’s what Anne said. And who is this Brooke? Does Harry know her? Are they close, even?

Something suspiciously akin to jealousy shoots through Louis’ veins and he hurries to extinguish that ridiculous flame by asking Harry outright. No point beating around the bush.

Harry’s face is coloured in a scowl, petulant and pouty and Louis wouldn’t be surprised if he’s about to stomp his foot. Louis resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“Do you think she knows? About the curse being active again?”

Harry quiets, frowning. “I think she’s worked it out, yeah.”

It would surely explain her disconcerting behaviour at the door.

“I know you said this curse is placed on all of you, but do you think what she’s hiding is to do with this? That it’ll affect you first or the most, maybe? And that’s why she’s not telling you? Because you’re the one who’s most in danger?”

“That’s probably exactly why she’s not telling me,” Harry says harshly. “But then if that’s true, I deserve to know, right? If it has a significant effect on my life then I have a right to know what it is, don’t I? I’m not a child, for god’s sake.”

“Yeah, I know I'd feel the same,” Louis agrees, brows furrowed. He pauses. “Um. You know at the door? Your mum sorta zoned out. Does she do that a lot?”

“Zoned out?” Harry frowns.

“She kind of stared at nothing and said 'Brooke'?"

Harry’s eyes widen in confusion, a realisation dawning on his face. “She definitely said Brooke?”

Louis nods. “Yeah, definitely."

“That's my aunt’s name. My Aunt Brooke. She's the one I’m looking for.”

"Your aunt." But Louis doesn’t need to ask any more questions, as Harry barrels into their background.

“Oh, god, she must be fuming. Brooke and my mum don’t really see eye to eye. Never have. They were always fighting, growing up. Like cat and mouse, my nan used to say. She’s my mum’s younger sister and there’s quite a big age gap between them. And when I was born, Brooke was about sixteen, so I think she’s always seen me as her younger brother rather than her nephew, and I’ve always been close to Brookeꟷme and my sister both have,”ꟷLouis holds back the urge to ask about his sister’s whereabouts now that he’s mentioned her a second time. He frownsꟷ”But my mum was always uneasy about it. Said that she was a bad influence on me. That she’d let me wander off too many times. And I guess I did run off a lot. To explore. I was a curious child. Restless. Loud. Wanted people’s attention. I wanted to show off and make everyone laugh, entertain them with new spells I’d picked up. Aunt Brooke always humoured me, taught basic ones to me, you know, the harmless ones.” Harry pauses on a half-smile. “She used to find me in some weird places. I snuck into the back of her car a lot, would pop up and scream and she’d scream, and we’d start cackling,” he grins at the memory, “I was constantly disappearing further into the woods than I was supposed to go. I ended up in graveyards, near lakes, a rubbish dump or two…” Harry winces, “yeah. Really,” he confirms at the sight of Louis’ appalled face.

“Gross. I’d go mad if Amy did that.”

“Was probably following some stray cats.”

“Of course you were,” Louis smirks.

Harry’s mouth quirks in return, one of his fingers brushing his nose. “I was a strange child. I walked into a school I didn’t even go to once. The teachers there said it was like I was in a trance. Talking to myself.”

“A trance?”

There’s that sense of déjà vu again. It unsettles Louis’ insides greatly. Sloshing around. Hollow. Louis feels himself frown.

“Yeah, I had a lot of those kind of days, too. Mum said I was prone to having visions as a kid.”

“Of the future?” Louis says automatically. Like that’s a thing. Like it’s normal.

“Mm-hmm. Though I’d only ever remember fragments. I’d say random words and bits of a description of a place and my mum wouldn’t have a clue how to decipher what I was saying.” Harry’s mouth changes into a more thoughtful curve, the skin between his brows pinched. “But she said they got worse, more, uh, violent. Like in imagery? Like I was suffering from nightmares, but I was still awake. It terrified her, because I was a kid, you know?”

“Did you grow out of them?” Louis asks, feeling an awful bout of cold dread seep into his bones. Because all this… it sounds… familiar. Kind of. He can certainly relate. And that’s… Uncomfortable.

“Um, noꟷnot really,” Harry answers after a prolonged moment, voice quiet, scratchy. His rips his gaze away from Louis abruptly. Louis blinks, confused and watches as Harry determinedly doesn’t meet his eyes, buttoning up the straps of his dungarees and fastening them over his shoulders. “Should we, like, get going now? If you’re still okay with this?”

“Yeah, yeah. I thought you were the one having second thoughts, not me.”

“I was, I am… but, um. I dunno. But yeah. I think I should just get on with it. Deal with it. Find Brooke, because she’ll know what to do. And I’ve no intention of letting anything happen to you, so it’ll be fine, right?” Harry’s eyes are filled with hope, probably looking for Louis to reaffirm that everything will go to plan.

“Right,” Louis agrees. And he does agree, in spite of the niggling pull in the back of his mind, a voice that’s telling him something isn’t quite right.

But then Harry is standing in front of him with imploring, ethereal eyes, hair a heap of messy, damp curls piled on top of his head, brushing his ears and kissing his neck, falling by his eyes as he absently fiddles with the bandage on his hand, his lithe, gangly body hugged by denim and there’s a few red spots dotted between his neat eyebrows, skin flushed and pale at once and Louis just… he can’t tell him no.

"It's just funny."

"What is?" Harry's brows faintly pull together. 

"Well. You're the one with magic, and you're asking me, a mere mortal, if everything's going to be okay." He lets Harry stare at him, unblinkingly, until fear seems to seep to the surface of Harry's boyish cheeks and then Louis smirks.

“Yeah? We’re really going this time?” Harry’s forming smile is bright, wrapped in warm sunbeams, his eyelashes caught on a flinch.

Louis’ effectively ruined. Of course he is. Affection pouring into his veins and lighting them up like a Christmas tree.

"Yep. Let's get on with finding your aunt, yeah? And we'll see about sorting this curse predicament you have going on." Harry nods, pleased as punch, a world away from the boy who was climbing down a drainpipe, basically in panicked tears, hopeless. "Though, now your mum is up and about, we're going to have to be cautious."

Harry sinks his teeth into his lip, smile slipping.

"What?" Louis prods.

"Well, I could do a quick spell to get inside the van without having to walk outside in person?"

Louis' jaw falls open just a tad. "Like apparition?”

“Um, no, I really will physically be in the van. So more like teleportation.”

Louis’ mind is very much blown. “This is so fucking cool," he laughs. "Fuck. I mean, I know you're a witch, but, fuck, Harry! You can actually  _do_  shit like this. You can disappear and reappear somewhere else! It's amazing," he grins, starting to laugh breathlessly.

Harry just giggles in response to Louis’ startled awe.

Louis' stomach flips out and then he remembers something. "Hang on. If that's the case, why were you climbing out the window when you could have just magically teleported yourself out of there?"

“Well,” Harry pauses, his smile fading slightly, “I’ve only practised it a bit, because it’s generally difficult when you’re always surrounded by non-witches who will most probably notice if I just disappeared into thin air. I’ve done it before, but only like, um… once? And I ended up completely in the wrong place. But it... worked?”

“You've only done it once,” Louis gapes. “Ever?”

Harry shrugs sheepishly. “I go everywhere on my bike, anyway. It’s just lazy if I transported myself to places all the time. I'm pretty sure I can do it now, though. I know the right incantation I need to use this time.”

“ _Harry_ ,” Louis laughs, incredulous. “What are you like?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

“Yes,” Louis laughs.

Harry laughs too, eyes brighter. “No, but, like. It drains a lot of energy if you take advantage of it too much within a close time-frame. And you can’t travel too far a distance, either. So, like. I couldn’t take us to Paris or anything, you know?”

“Paris?” Louis teasingly quirks an eyebrow.

“It was the first place that jumped into my head,” Harry mumbles, cheeks a tad pink. “And also, you have to be a mature witch to attempt a long-distance teleportation spell and even then, you’d need a day to recover and regain your power, like to refuel, so to speak, or you’d feel a bit like you’re… jet-lagged, or something.”

Louis laughs harder. “This is so bizarre. You can use  _magic_ and there’s still all these rules and effects and consequences. Though, I have been reading  _Harry Potter_ , so it’s not a total surprise to me. Realistic, in fact.”

Harry shakes his head, chuckling softly. “Well, then, it’s pretty much like everything else, really, Louis, you knowꟷif you really think about it. Nothing comes without limits and restrictions in some way or other.” His voice is amused.

“Sort of. I’ll give you that.” Louis smiles, bathing in the blinding one that’s suddenly stuck to Harry’s features.

“Thanks,” Harry replies dopily, swaying his body on the spot, a half-beam, half-smirk revealing his dimples and Louis might as well be wearing sunglasses because it's such a blindingly bright joy of a smile, Louis sort of needs to breathe into a paper bag to regain his composure.

Louis instead bites back another grin because this boy is illegal amounts of cute. It's sickening. “Right, then. Shall we? Got your bag? Everything you need? Because I have food supplies, water bottles, wallet, keys, several tapes for the drive. You good?”

“Yep. Got it all. Thanks.” Harry smiles at Louis, warm and trusting.

“Okay, so… Are you going to evaporate or, you know, whatever?” 

Harry seems to find this funny too, and giggles quietly as he straightens his back, lifting his chin slightly and closes his eyes, face calming down and settling into a serene, concentrated expression.

He starts to mutter a collection of words under his breath, just loud enough for Louis to make out and then he’s just gone. Louis blinks and Harry’s gone.

"Okay, I'll just... meet you outside, then," Louis says to himself.

 

***

 

Louis locks up, then sneaks out to the front of the house with his stuff. A few people are out walking their dogs, and a bunch of kids whizz by on their bikes, momentarily making Louis jump out of his skin, but there’s no sign of Anne in her front garden, plucking her flourishing herb plants (and that makes complete sense now), nor is she peeking through the net curtains as far as he can tell.

Right, then. Coast is clear.

He shucks up his bag with one hand as he lifts up the garage door by the handle, and there, in all its unassuming, bright orange glory and catching the sun’s assaulting rays, sits his 1978 Volkswagen campervan, once belonging to his mum, which was passed down to her by her dad, Louis’ grandad. It’s a decent size, the paint work still like new and he loves it very fucking much (even if he hasn’t actually taken it out for a proper drive yet.) Inside, he’s done it up to fit Louis’ personality, his very own humble abode on wheels, chock full with band posters and threaded and saturated with a bunch of old Christmas lights, complete with a dart board that’s more for show (because he can hardly play it in there really, unless he’s willing to gain a stab wound). There’s an ugly, round purple and green fluffy rug in the middle of the low-risen, cluttered and compact space, and a shoebox-sized, built-in bed at the end of the van. That’s pressed up against the back window and the small cupboards are boxed into the ceiling, the tiniest stove and mini-fridge that you’ve ever seen perched underneath them all. Oh. And an assortment of different coloured pillows and blankets and duvets complete the cosy, little set-up.

And Louis loves it. Loves having his very own kitsch, mismatched, vibrantly-saturated hideaway to escape the unforgiving nature of the world when he’s tired of the same old settings and chat and melodrama and wants to listen to Freddie Mercury in peace. And of course, he has his bedroom but when you’ve got a little sister wanting to drag your socks off and draw on your face with cheap lipstick, there’s not a lot of alone time at home.

Before he walks up to the van, he pokes his head around the side to check one more time that Harry's mum isn't watching, then he unlocks the front seats and drags the sliding door of the van open, jolting at the sound of Harry’s voice before he sees him, already having made himself comfy.

“This is a wicked space you’ve got here. I especially love the decorative empty Wotsits packets I'm sitting on," Harry says.

His long legs are bent and settled underneath him, surrounded by a mountain of Louis’ cushions, his back propped up against a poster of Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ album pasted onto the side of the van’s wall, a dazzling smile glowing under the fairy lights, a kaleidoscope brimming in his eyes. Louis almost chokes on air. Harry's here. In Louis' van. In his space. And that's completely unremarkable. Obviously. Yep.

(So not making Louis nervous and riling up that wild flutter in his tum.)

“Cheers. Make yourself at home, why don’t you,” Louis blinks, flabbergasted that this is still actually happening. Harry literally made himself appear inside Louis’ van like that. And that's just... Yeah. So apparently this is Louis' life now. There's no unknowing this. 

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he announces with dramatic flair, flicking his fringe out his eyes to distract from Harry swamped amongst his bedding.

Louis, horrifyingly, feels shy all of a sudden. And he's sure his face is giving that away. God, he feels so hot again, his red t-shirt sticking to his chest. And it's quite stuffy in here. A hazy sort of lingering smell of burgers wafting around the cramped space. Oh. There's a collection of rubbish in the corner, so, yeah. That'll be it.

Oh, god.

But Harry doesn't say anything about unpleasant smells. He seems to be in a calmer mood, his round green eyes curiously wandering around the contents of the campervan, eyes trailing over his posters and the scattered magazines and random items of clothing strewn around, one too many cans of Coke beneath another pile of junk of who knows what (he's had late-night smoking sessions in here with Niall more than anything else), and then Harry pauses. Louis spots one of his sister’s hideous Furbies lying by the foot of the tiny bed. Harry’s gaze falls to it instantly of course, and studies it with a concentrated frown. He lifts his head to look at Louis.

They lock gazes.

Louis bursts out laughing. “Don’t look so worried, I’m not a weirdo who collects Furbies, alright? My little sister’s stuffed demons, obviously."

“Sure,” Harry drawls after a beat, grinning. God, that's a good smile. A very good smile. He's sitting so pretty, settled amongst Louis' things, and his hair is starting to dry now, frizzing around his ears. And there’s a small beige birthmark on top of his right wrist which Louis zeros in on, weirdly fixated with it, his eyes raking down to his long, pale fingers, the squishy pads of his fingertips, his nails short and clean, and there’s a few tiny scabs around the knuckles andꟷ

“Louis? Are you okay?” Harry asks slowly, tone careful.

“Huh?” Louis says dumbly.

“Um, you zoned out again. A bit.”

“Shit, did I? Sorry, it’s still allꟷ You just literally made yourself appear in my van. Like, magic. Well, not _like_ , magic. Magic,” Louis chuckles. “It’s just gonna take some getting used to, that’s all. It’s cool, though,” he insists. “Like, it’s just surreal, you know?” He resumes his breathless, quiet laughter, fiddles with his fringe and averts his gaze, managing to produce a half-smile amidst the hot flaming of his face. He shifts around a bit, about to climb into the front seat as he dumps his own bag with Harry’s butꟷ

“Hey, Louis?”

Louis hums in recognition.

Harry bites his cheek, mouth twisting in discomfort, a grimace, a kind of smile forming, rueful. “I’m sorry for maybe biting your head off a bit earlier? And for being stroppy? And I, um... I understand if this gets to be too much for you. Like, if something comes up that's too far over the realm of ridiculousness for you? I meanꟷ” he scoffs, chokes out a laugh that sounds humourless, “ꟷit’s not every day you find out witches who cast real spells really exist within the same plane, right? That you can see and touch and smell what a spell produces. I don’t want you to be scared of us, but it’s completely understandable if you’re overwhelmed and don’t want to be near me anymore, okay? You can back out at any time if it’s too much to wrap your mind around and you want out. I’ll completely understand, Louis. It’s fine. You don’t have to tag along with me if you don’t want to. But, I'd really like it if you did.”

For several seconds Louis is speechless. Harry sounds so earnest and resigned and  _sad,_  goddammit. He seems to be convinced that Louis will want out of Harry's world at any given moment. And his gorgeously-shaped mouth is parted, twisted, apologetic, and he’s still trying to smile at Louis, to reassure him that it’s okay if Louis suddenly wants to dump him on the side of a motorway out of nowhere or a leave him alone on a dingy country road next to land full of sheep? Like hell Louis would do that to him. He has to convince Harry that he’s not using him.

“Harry, I’m not sure if I should be offended that you think I’d really chuck you out mid-journey?”

“Well, maybe not _chuck,_ but you might change your mind about this, and that’s okay, it is. Really,” Harry insists, far too impassioned. “You don’t owe me anything. It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not fine, Harry!” Louis tells him, outraged. “That would be really shitty of me. I'm not gonna do that. There’s nothing you could show me or conjure up that will send me running, alright? I'm driving you to your aunt's, I'll wait until you've explained to her what the situation is, I'll wait 'til she's managed to fix it, and then I'll take you home. Okay? You got that, mister?"

Harry nods slowly, tentatively, but his mouth looks no less wilted and sad. He makes to move, gesturing a bit too wildly and forgets about his bad hand until he accidentally whacks it against the side of the van and yelps. “Ouch! Ow.” He scrunches up his soft features, skin too pale and pretty for his own good in Louis’ humble opinion.

“Careful,” Louis says belatedly.

Harry shoots him a glare, clutching his bandaged hand to his chest with his good one.

Louis can’t help the smile that tugs on his mouth as he watches him pout. “Well, okay,” he says a bit too loud, “Know what you’re doing? Got it all thought out?"

“When I tell my Aunt Brooke what’s happened, she’ll know what to do. She’s good at this kind of thing. Spell reversals. It should all be okay. It has to be,” Harry says quietly, like he’s trying to reassure himself that it will. He sounds incredibly uncertain still though and it worries Louis a bit if he’s being honest. The sad tilt to Harry’s mouth is back and Louis just has to change that pronto, frowning at this youthful set of elongated, awkward limbs and head of excellent, chocolate mousse curls.

“Right then. So what’s the real plan here? Got some highly questionable spells stuffed in that rucksack of yours?” Louis narrows his eyes. “Killing curses?” he gasps, making a show of shifting backwards away from Harry, clutching his knees closer to his chest, back pushed against the van’s door.

Harry huffs, rolling his eyes. “This isn’t some book you’ve read, alright? But, uh… sort of.”

“Oh, great! I’ve got a real-life witch in me van who’s armed with dangerous magic and on the run from possibly other dangerous witches who want to curse your backside. Terrific!”

“Don’t forget the helping me find my aunt part,” Harry adds, “or I’ve screwed up my whole family’s lives all by bloody nosing around where I wasn’t supposed to.” He shuts his eyes, whimpering as he cradles his bandaged hand.

“Right. Real lives are at stake. Even better. And no. I haven't forgotten the reason we're going on this drive, Harry." 

Harry's hair is falling into his face as he dramatically slumps in on himself, his legs too big in the small space, but Louis' attention is caught on the gloss of his eyelids, mesmerising as they catch the light, highlighting their sweeping sheen. Because apparently those are things he notices now. Or just about Harry. (God, he needs to calm down.) 

“Yeah. Unfortunately, unlike a book, I don’t know how this will end," Harry says, tone glum. "God, I hope Brooke knows what to do." He slumps further.

"What do you think it is exactly?" Louis wonders aloud.

"The curse?"

"Yeah," Louis nods.

"I have an idea." Harry gaze slides to Louis, pausing on his face a moment before he darts it away again, cheeks flushing slightly. Louis chooses not to mention it. "But, um. I dunno, Mum's always been really cagey about that too," he sighs, somewhat wistful.

"Oh. Well. You know it will be alright, yeah? Whatever it is. The curse will be reversed, Harry, I know it.”

“And how do you know that?” Harry says, half-smirking as he lifts his chin haughtily, tilting his head to the side.

“Because I’m me and I say so. I'm a human crystal ball, you see.”

Harry’s mouth curves further upwards, a close-mouthed smile, pink and real. “Oh, really?”

“Yep, really, really.” Louis grins and taps his knee. “Right, I’m gonna climb in the front here and start driving, eh? I think we’ve wasted enough time chit-chatting.” He ruffles a soft hand through Harry’s curls for good measure, prolonging the trusting, easy smile that lights up the delicate lines of Harry’s face. “You can come and sit in the front with me once we’ve definitely left the town’s threshold, yeah? Just in case someone might recognise you and tell your mother you’ve run off with a strange boy with sunburn on his nose.”

Louis hears Harry’s breathless chuckles and smiles stupidly to himself, decidedly choosing not to focus too closely on the intense fluttering going on his stomach this second.

“Yeah, okay,” Harry answers softly.

With that, Louis rummages around the organised mess that is his van’s ‘living area’ and plants his bum in the driver’s seat, legs flying in the air in the process briefly and bending every which way before he lands. “That was easy,” he mutters. He turns the key in the ignition, puts his seatbelt on.

“Louis?”

“Yeah?” Louis twists his neck immediately to face the other boy, senses spiked at the sound of his voice. It’s very much embarrassing.

“Thank you,” Harry says, and he sounds so soft and earnest and gentle and god, Louis’ chest hurts a bit. It aches, even. “I don’t think I’ve said it properly so far. But, thank you for doing this for me and like, not running away and shouting down the street that I’m a lunatic, or something.”

“I did have a moment, though, didn’t I?” Louis cringes, apologetic.

Harry just presses another smile between his petal pink lips. “We've only been talking for like, a day. So I'm sure you'll find a way to make it up to me."

Louis stares.

“But, like. Thank you for believing me, too, I guess?”

“I mean, I’d have to literally turn a blind eye to not believe you, Harry,” Louis smirks. “It’s hard to deny what’s right in front of you.”

“Yeah, but. Still. You _believe_  me. That’s more than I could have hoped for.”

They lock eyes, and Harry’s are shiny and so, so green, the musty, stuffy air feels stifling all of a sudden, restricting the oxygen passing into Louis’ lungs. “You’re welcome,” he mumbles, feeling his cheeks heat up as he stares at Harry, a wild shot of adrenaline travelling through his veins as he blindly presses the play button, the last cassette he had on immediately filling the van with the loud bass of Sonic Youth’s ‘Teen Age Riot’.

Harry laughs instantly. “I thought you said Mariah would be on the whole way there?”

“Just wait,” Louis winks. “Right, let’s test out my newly obtained driver’s licence, shall we?”

Harry gestures toward the windscreen, still grinning.

Louis pushes his foot down on the clutch, other foot on the brake pedal as he holds onto the brake and starts the engine.

When he pulls out of the driveway, he keeps an eye out on next door, the curtains still, the front garden empty.

“So far, so good,” he says.

Harry hums tentatively, lying flat on the floor of the van, hands clasped atop his stomach.

Louis gets to the end of the street, braking to wait for a car to pass so he can indicate left, when a sudden, violent shudder comes over him, spreading through every inch of his body, his teeth absurdly chattering as he clutches the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip. A series of flashes burn behind his eyelids, lilac petals falling onto snow like rain. Blood dripping, staining the pristine white.

He feels himself being pulled, dragged under unforgiving waves in a storm, drowning him, pulling, down, down, downꟷ

“Louis!”

He’s shaken vigorously awake by Harry, his eyes blown wide and prickled with fear. “Look at me! What’s wrong? Look at me, Louis,” he’s practically screaming. It’s the loudest he’s ever heard Harry speak.

“What?” Louis blinks, disorientated as he tries to focus on Harry’s terrified face. His throat feels raw, his heart pounding in his chest painfully.

“Fuck, you scared the shit out of me,” Harry croaks out, hands running up and down Louis’ arms like a mantra, unrelenting, the warm press of skin and cotton grounding him.

“Why? Did I black out again?” Louis shoots a look at his mirrors. There aren’t any other cars behind them, thank god.

“You were screaming.”

Louis stares in shock. “No, I wasn’t. I fainted or something? Didn't I?"

“Louis, you were justꟷfrozen, screaming with your eyes closed. You wouldn't stop."

He watches as Harry's mouth is twisted worriedly.

Louis swallows hard, stunned that his nightmares are bleeding into daytime. “What the hell is happening to me?” he mutters, at a loss, drained, aware Harry can’t give him an answer but suddenly he feels desperate. Scared. And god, so tired.

“I have them too,” Harry says slowly, the words quiet and cautious, like a he’s revealing a terrible secret close by prying, dangerous ears. "Whatever's happening to you, I think it's happening to both of us."

_Wake up. Wake up, you foolish boy!_

Louis jumps at the hissed voice practically spitting the words into his ear and launches into parking the car on the side of the road, where they're surrounded by semi-attached houses and their trimmed hedges and pebbled driveways, the sun beating down on their exposed arms through the front windows. He slumps in his seat, and squeezes his eyes shut.

His stomach lurches, suffocated by the overpowering smell of smoke.


	5. v.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi to anyone who's following this! I've made a few changes and minor edits in previous chapters, so those are there if you wanted to read through it again to refresh. This chapter is a bit shorter than usual but I'm getting there! I'd say I hope I can update sooner for the next chapter but I know how that goes so we'll see... I'll try my best to update more regularly! :D xx

 

 

_Skin up like lightning_

_Breathing flames from tourist trade_

_Your eyes go quite frightening_

_You lock your gaze onto my face_

 

_I'll escape with him  
_

_Show him all my skin  
_

_Then I'll go  
_

_I'll go home_

 

 _-_ Daughter, 'Amsterdam'

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Wake up, boy. Wake up. Wake up!_

_Running. They’re running, clothes catching on branches, scratching at their cold, numb faces. It’s snowing, but there’s smoke, stinging their eyes and making it harder to run. A fire glows amber in the distance._

_"No! Give him to me."_

_The cliff’s steep edge crumbles with loose stone which falls into the sea below as their feet move and scramble to a halt. His heart pounds painfully behind his ribs, fear almost strangling him. He grips the other boy’s hand as tight as possible._

_"Give him to me!"_

_A hand smeared with red reaches out and pulls him backwards._

_Something cracks, echoing around them._

_A deafening scream fills the icy air._

_"No!"_

“Louis? Hey, Louis, can you hear me?” Harry’s panicked voice asks.

He feels himself being shaken by the shoulders. 

Louis comes to with an abrupt heave of his chest, gasping sharply and swallowing too much air, half-choking on it.

“Oh, god,” he groans. “Not again.”

He squints as he tries to open his eyes, ducking away from the assault of the sun, much too bright now. Moisture gathers in his eyes. He’s sweltering, sweat dripping down the side of his nose as he concentrates on catching his breath, laden arms draped over the wheel. He groans louder, clutching his head with one limp hand.

“How long was I out that time? Also, I’m not being funny, but I seem to be blacking out much more often since—ah,” he rubs at his eye, “since I started hanging around you. I feel like someone’s chucked a rock at my head.”

Harry takes a moment to reply, several, in fact. Louis cracks an eye open, twisting his head around to face him.

The other boy looks shaken, small. His hair is frizzing at the ends and his slight shoulders are hunched, legs folded and crouched between the gap from the front seats, leaning against Louis’, eyes wide and unblinking. He’s pale but his cheeks are still blotchy pink from the heat.

Louis stares at him, confused. “I feel weird.” _And even weirder about you_ , is what he doesn’t say. He feels out of breath, like he’s been running.

_Give him to me!_

Louis jumps, torso jerking abruptly. “Fuck, I had another dream, Harry. I’m not sure it was even me, but it felt like it? I don’t know what I’m saying,” he mutters.

“You were out about a minute,” Harry says quietly. “And you only started hanging out with me today. Yesterday— Well,” he answers belatedly. He tilts his head, “today, really.”

“My point exactly,” Louis grimaces, pressing his fingers to his forehead, suddenly hit by the strong smell of burning. “Smoke,” he blurts out. “Can you smell smoke? Oh, my god, I can smell smoke.” He jolts upright, which was stupid because he’s immediately struck by a wave of dizziness.

“No, I can’t smell anything,” Harry frowns. “Louis, are you okay? Sit still a minute. Have some water.” Harry turns to rummage through his rucksack.

“No, seriously, Harry. Something’s burning. I can smell it. Maybe it’s the engine?” The words are rapid, breathless. Louis makes to move out of his seat, hand clumsily attempting to open the door on his side.

“Where are you going? Nothing’s burning, Louis. The engine is fine,” he hears Harry say adamantly next to him. He feels Harry grip onto Louis’ shoulder, effectively stopping him from going anywhere. He feels too weak and lazy to push him off anyway. He keeps his gaze out front, absently watching the cars at the end of the road whizz by in a blur, mind noisily screaming danger.

“So where’s it coming from then?” he snaps. “You honestly can’t smell it?” He whips his head around to look at Harry.

He doesn’t know where this sudden paranoia has come from, only that he feels trapped, and everything in him needs to retreat. He can hardly breathe.

“Louis, take some deep breaths for me, yeah?” Harry’s voice sounds distant now, not cold, but far away, like Louis is stuck in a glass container and Harry is on the outside, his words tinny and separate.

He blinks furiously, finding his vision’s blurry from the wetness around his eyes. He touches the tacky skin below them and finds his eyes are streaming. Almost like he really had been surrounded by smoke, from a fire, a bonfire, or the fumes from a lit barbeque; the stinging sensation he feels is so realistic.

A tightness forms around his lungs. He feels panicked, paranoid.  And that _voice_. There was someone. They were angry. They were telling Louis to wake up. Weren’t they? “No, no—I. I could definitely smell smoke. There’s burning, Harry, I know it—”

Or does he? His dreams are beginning to feel so real these days, real enough that he can distinctly smell and touch things in the dream, getting to the point where he’s failing to distinguish what’s his imagination and what isn’t.

A sharp shock of dread trickles down his sweaty limbs, a stark change to the overheated skin of his body, thighs sticking to the leather of the seating, his palms clammy. He tips his head back heavily in his seat, vaguely aware that Harry has moved into the passenger seat to sit next to him.

He shuts his eyes and scrambles to reopen them, but he can’t. They’re momentarily stuck, eyelashes pinched in clusters, unable to pry them open.

Fear grips Louis. It feels familiar, like he’s forgotten something.

“Harry? _Harry_ ,” he repeats urgently. “Harry!” He’s probably squeezing Harry’s fingers to the point of pain, very distantly aware of a tingling sensation and then there’s quiet.

“Louis, stop. Shh. Shh. It’s okay. Just try to calm down,” Harry says softly, stating the obvious. Louis would roll his eyes at him if he could even bloody open them.

It takes another moment and then his eyes fling back open.

He feels breathless, chest absolutely heaving.

“Focus on me, yeah?”

“They’re coming,” Louis has the sudden urge to nonsensically say. It makes no sense to his own ears. He has no idea what’s talking about or why he said it. “Harry.”

And then Harry’s hand encases Louis’, holding on tightly, steadying him until Louis’ breathing returns to normal and the panic seeps away.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Harry’s saying to him, over and over, tone calm and soothing and gentle. His voice is slightly rougher than before, and Louis thinks he hears it catch once or twice, shaking a little with apprehension.

He looks at the other boy, who’s wide-eyed and basically terrified.

Louis’ chest feels tighter.

“Shit, Harry, I think I’m going stir-crazy. Either that or suffering from vertigo,” Louis says lightly, desperate for the tense mood to dissipate. He leans in closer to Harry, still holding onto his one of his hands. Louis supresses the urge to let go of it to press his hands against Harry’s cheeks. They’re wet.

Louis frowns. “Were you crying?” His hand rises and pauses mid-air, unsure what he was about to do. Touch his face? He resists rolling his eyes at himself.

“I—” Harry wipes quickly at his face. “That was just—it was scary. I was just—yeah.” There’s something in his voice though, an odd edge that convinces Louis it’s a lie, or perhaps not precisely a lie. He believes Harry is scared, but there’s something else he’s holding back.

Louis chooses not to press.

“Fuck, I’m exhausted.” He tips his head back.

“Well, we have been up all night,” Harry points out.

They have, but Louis also knows it’s more than that. A different kind of tired. Whatever just took over him… it was like he was fighting a demon possession or something, like he was being dragged under waves of intrusive thoughts and images and nightmares. He pushes away the idea that the dreams are visions, of the past or future because no, he is not entertaining that clusterfuck. It’s been enough of that already.

Harry loosens his hold on Louis’ hands, slowly retreating from his grip and setting his hands in his lap, gaze lowered.

And Louis doesn’t like that, clenches his hand into a fist to stop himself from taking back Harry’s hand, and does what he does best in uncomfortable moments—he rambles.

“Did you know I keep dreaming about bloody lavender roses? And literally, too. Bloody, I mean. They’re always splattered with blood. Creepy shit, right? And snow seems to be a running theme, too. It’s nearly always the same dream. Except now I’m hearing threatening voices, too,” he says lightly, not missing the way Harry tenses up next to him. “So. Nice, eh?”

He looks at the boy wryly. “Maybe I should see I doctor? Maybe my brain needs looking at.”

Harry slowly shakes his head and looks back up at him. “Your brain is fine.”

There’s an odd atmosphere that’s settled between them now. It’s not exactly awkward but there’ definite tension.

Harry’s gaze is steady, brows scrunched as though he’s concentrating hard, lost in thought. There’s a red mark coming up on his chin, a heat patch or something.

“Harry?” Louis prods.

Harry puts his index finger to his mouth and begins to pull at the skin of his fingertip, chewing at it, brows creased harshly.

“You know I packed food, right? You don’t have to eat yourself.”

A puff of air chokes out of Harry. His eyes are clearer, open. He laughs. “You’re impossible.”

Louis blinks, thinking _you’re the impossible one here, Harry._

He blinks a few a more times, laughing breathily, a bit shell-shocked now that it’s sinking in what they’re actually doing, where they are and where they’re off to.

When he’s tossed and turned at night, unable to get to sleep because he’s dreaming, because he’s being chased through a cold, unforgiving forest, trudging through a massive blanket of untouched snow, feeling his skin prickle like he’s being watched, _this_ hasn’t ever happened to him. Not quite like this before. This physical reaction. Being unable to breathe and losing control of your own body.

It feels like there’s something otherworldly happening to him, something, as ridiculous as it does sound, _supernatural_ , in fact. Which he really shouldn’t be surprised about since he’s sitting in a car with an actual witch.

And yeah. It does still sound mad. Only hours ago, Louis thought Harry was just a quirky boy who lived next door. Who carried heavy, ancient books around to read for fun. Who had just as oddball friends who’d rather swap tarot card readings than try to get tickets to an Oasis gig.

Harry was just a boy with a rocky relationship with his parents, a boy Louis wanted to make smile by doing him this favour, a boy Louis wanted to befriend.

A boy Louis wanted to kiss.

He feels overwhelmed with a magnitude of conflicting feelings, the adrenaline of what they’re doing: going on some sort of modern-day quest, wonder and amazement and excitement and disbelief at everything he’s ever known being turned on its head, bubbling underneath his fingertips, and the crushing fear and anxiety that he can’t help but feel, for them both, for his family, for everyone he knows. Because, what if? What if something does go wrong? And they’re stuck in something dangerous and unknown that not even Harry can get out of. He’s still just a teenager. A kid, really. In the grand scheme of things, Harry has no clue what will happen to them either, if they continue this road trip and find Harry’s auntie in the hopes of sorting out whatever problem Harry has accidently caused.

And. Oh, yeah. The curse. Whatever that is. That’s a thing they’re dealing with here, too. Rad. Jut wicked, eh?

He lowers his head against the wheel, unable to stop laughing. It’s pouring out of him, proper belly laughs, like a much-anticipated release.

A solid weight comes up to rest against his left shoulder.

Harry’s there, in Louis’ space. He’s close enough that Harry’s nose is almost touching Louis’ overheated cheek. Louis’ stomach does a heavy flip. It’s a different kind of butterflies. Not a feeling he’s felt before and it shocks him. It’s overwhelming, having Harry this close, the other boy’s eyelashes glittering bronze, almost blonde, in the sunlight as wispy shadows fan out over his pale skin.

 _He’s really kind of beautiful_ , Louis thinks vaguely, swallowing heavily around his dry throat. Harry’s green eyes stare intently back at him.

“You said something, um, before,” Louis says, attempting to subtly shift backwards. Harry’s eyes follow the movement. “That something like this has happened to you? The, um…”

What does he call them? At this rate, Harry’s probably going to tell him Louis is seeing visions of the future and Louis would believe it.

“Uh. Nightmares?”

“Oh. Um. Yeah,” Harry clears his throat. “I do.” His gaze focuses on something through the window.

“You want to elaborate or?”

Harry sweeps a bit of his fringe across his forehead. “Do you remember earlier, about me telling you that I’d have these visions as a kid, and that my mum would struggle to find the meaning of anything I was saying until they happened? And then it was too late? Because I was so young, and my descriptions were so vague?”

“Yeah,” Louis whispers.

“I’ve started having them again. These sort of dreams, sort of nightmares. I’m not entirely sure yet if they’re visions as such, or if anything in them has actually happened. I guess it depends on whether or not I end up aware of anything that comes true. That, you know, matches what I’ve seen.”

“That must be scary,” Louis says softly.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, eyes imploring. “For you, too.”

“They’re no walk in the park, no. Unsettling, for sure. Make me feel a bit sick afterwards, if I’m honest.”

Harry exhales, his hands clasping together purposefully. “I can’t explain it, but I need to tell you something else. And I need you not to panic when I do,” he starts, still no less wide-eyed.

Louis tilts his head. “There’s _another_ bombshell?”

“Okay?” Harry urges.

Louis squints suspiciously, feeling a lot better and awake. “Fine, but you do know telling someone not to panic doesn’t _stop_ someone from panicking? It _makes_ them start to panic,” he says, on the verge of hysterical, and god, his mouth is like paper, he’s so thirsty. There’s an awful metallic taste in his mouth, his tongue fuzzy.

He doesn’t wait for Harry’s explanation for why there’s to be no panicking—since Harry seems to have lost the ability to speak just now—and so Louis dives in the back of the fan, feet just barely missing Harry’s head, retrieving the water bottle in his bag. He gulps down half of it.

“There’s more in the mini fridge, don’t worry,” he says with a gasp, noticing Harry’s gaze is hooked eagerly on Louis drinking from the bottle.

“Go on, then,” Louis prompts, wiping his mouth.

Harry clears his throat. “I had a dream about _you._ Recently. An _odd_ dream.”

Louis blinks. Harry dreams about him? “Why would that make me panic?”

“I haven’t got to that part yet.”

“Well, get on with it, then.” Louis feels his impatience in the middle of his forehead. He’s irritable, and he instantly feels guilty. “Sorry, I don’t mean to snap.”

“You weren’t exactly _well_ in this dream. You were in the danger.”

“Was I edging towards death or what?” Louis laughs bitterly.

Harry quiets.

“Oh my god?” Louis shrieks. “I was _dead_?”

“No, no, I said not to panic!”

“Jesus, Harry! That was before you told me you had a dream that I died. Are these premonitions, too? Fucking hell,” Louis drawls loudly, shaking his head and pressing his palm to his head. There’s a kid skipping outside on the pavement holding an ice cream without a care in the world. He’d quite like to be that little girl right now.

“I mean, you might not be,” Harry insists. “You were on the ground, in the snow… sort of, like. Well. Not moving,” Louis’ eyes widen, and Harry carries on hastily, “and, like. Okay, you were _bleeding_ … but it doesn’t mean anything for certain,” he tries to assure Louis, voice getting higher in pitch, “I just thought it’d be better to tell you the truth. And maybe I needed to tell you.”

“Yeah,” Louis scoffs, “cheers for that info, mate.”

Harry’s face reddens and Louis softens instantly. He exhales.

“So, like. Do you have these dreams regularly, then? Because mine are getting pretty frequent.”

“They stopped at a certain point. I don’t really remember when. Well, not completely. I’d still get the odd flash of disturbing images, dizzy spells. They only recently happened more consistently on my eighteenth birthday and I’ve had them most nights since.” He pauses, regarding Louis with a long look. “Since we moved here, actually.”

He eyes Louis weirdly.

“Really? Eighteenth birthday?” Louis says dubiously.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, well, that doesn’t sound at all like a cliché.”

Harry sighs. “Yeah, well, it could have been a coincidence, but sometimes clichés do happen, Louis. Sorry to be the one to tell you. Right now, though? I think we need to get out of here and off this road. Like, quickly.” He rolls down the window all the way and sticks his head out. He pulls back in and looks at Louis determinedly. “Let me drive,” he says, already attempting to shift around to get into the driver’s seat, so he’s not really asking, just expecting Louis to hand over his van to for him to steer.

Louis feels a flare of indignance, like the younger boy doesn’t think he’s capable now that he’s had a sort of nervous breakdown. Which, okay. Maybe he’s a little bit of a safety risk at the moment.

Still. It’s Louis’ van.

“I’m fine,” he protests shrilly, about to press more when he’s startled by Harry’s big and clammy hand abruptly covering his mouth. Louis feels a hot spark, like an electric shock with his lips at the touch of Harry’s palm and widens his eyes, brows deeply furrowed with disgruntlement and surprise. His words are muffled as he says, “Um, excuse me? What do you think you’re doing, mate? Personal space is a thing.”

“Shush. I think we’re being watched.” Harry’s face is serious, eyes alert, voice hushed down to loud whispering.

Louis takes a look at their surroundings. Everything is sun-kissed, ordinary, quiet. There’s a few more kids on their bikes whizzing past the van. A mother with her toddler in a pram, shades on and sandals scraping against the pavement. A car goes past them. Nothing seems sinister. It all seems fine.

And anyway, Louis’ head is starting to pound again. He encircles Harry’s wrist with his hand and gently pushes him off. He scoffs. “What do you mean we’re being watched? By that dog over there?”

Harry snaps his head up to look at him. “It’s a feeling.”

“Here? In broad daylight? On an ordinary street in Huddersfield?” Louis laughs, tiredness creeping up on him, head heavy, limps heavy, everything feels heavy. “Oh, come on! Who or what exactly are we being watched by then, eh? Vampires? Werewolves? Fairies? What else is there? Goblins?”

A look of definite irritation passes over Harry’s face. “I’m being serious.”

Louis groans, placing his hands over his own face. “Harry—” he whines. “God, I can’t with all this. I’m really tired. How about we delay this another day, eh? Go park in a—park.”

“No. We can’t. I’m _serious_.” Harry leans closer, touching Louis’ shoulder. It’s warm, soft. Wonderful, in fact. And for one blissful moment it takes Louis to a glorious, peaceful place, relaxing his tight muscles and making him sag a bit. His eyelids could almost droop if he let them.

And then he snaps out of it, eyeing Harry’s hand distrustfully despite the shiver that racks through him, another flip in his stomach sending a hot wave of embarrassment after it.

“Why don’t we just go back for a bit, yeah?” Louis yawns. “Go to sleep for a while. Then tomorrow, we’ll be re-charged and ready to go.”

“No. I don’t think we should go back yet.”

“Why?”

“I think someone is trying to tap into your mind through the nightmares and blackouts you’re having,” Harry says slowly, “and maybe into your memories? They could even be planting new ones there, like for safe keeping, almost? When you have your—when you black out and dream? Your mind becomes vulnerable, unlocked, free to whatever wants to get in. And whoever does want a way in, someone obviously not your average human, can find one easily. They could be showing you the past, the future, or maybe even things that are happening right now. I think maybe that’s what’s been happening to us. I just don’t know why or what’s causing it.” His brows are pinched in thought, thumb pressing into his bottom lip.

Louis just stares. “I don’t understand a word you’ve just said.”

Harry groans in frustration. “I know this all sounds like I’m completely off my head to you, and if you want me to leave, I’ll go, but like, you should know you’re probably in danger if you’re having similar dreams to me. And as far as I can tell, you’re not a witch.” Harry pauses, studying Louis closely. Louis squirms under his gaze. “You’re not right?”

“No, I’m not a witch, Harry,” Louis says blankly.

“Are you sure?” Harry quirks an eyebrow.

“I’m _sure_. I think I would know.”

“Well, okay, we have an issue here, then. Because if you’re not related to any witches at, if they aren’t connected to your ancestors at all, then how can you be so entwined with things that specifically happen to _witches_? And you’re not special in any other way—”

“Oh, cheers,” Louis mutters.

“—so what is it about you? What’s different?”

Harry’s still staring at Louis as though he’s attempting to decipher an ancient relic that nobody can seem to translate, and Louis is highly uncomfortable. As far as he knows, his mother never dated a vampire or psychic or whatever so that’s that.

But Louis is ordinary. He is, he’s completely human.

Like. As far as Louis is aware.

“I suffer from bad nightmares, that’s it,” he insists. “I admit, strange things used to happen to me as a kid but—”

“Like what?” Harry urges.

“Would you let me finish?”

“I think you’d like an explanation for everything you’ve been going through, right?”

“And you’re going to give that to me, are you?”

“Well, I can try. I want to know what my mum is hiding, and it has something to do with the curse. Maybe one of your ancestors was cursed by one of mine centuries ago and you just don’t know about it? I mean, why would you know? How could you, even? And now it’s catching up to you.”

“This is all very comforting, Harry, I have to say.”

“I don’t know all of this for sure, I’m just thinking out loud,” Harry says, ignoring him. “But I really think we should get going now, okay? Maybe my Aunt Brooke can help with this. She’s done lots of digging through archives of human ancestors before when people want information about anything supernatural. Maybe she’s heard of the Tomlinsons? So. I’m driving.” He pauses, shifting more awkwardly. “I mean, um. Please? If that’s okay.”

Louis sighs. “But you’re a witch. How can you not know what these visions mean—"

“I don’t know everything,” Harry says.

“But _who_ would even be doing this to _me_? What have _I_ done? I’m not a witch, Harry. You’re the weird one here that probably attracts more weirdness wherever you go. Are you sure they’re not following you instead?”

Harry seems to flush red, quiet for a moment. Louis frowns. “It’s… um. I’m not sure. It’s… complicated,” is what he settles on.

“Try me,” Louis says, voice louder and much more impatient now.

Harry bites his lip. “There’s something odd about you.”

“Yes, yes,” Louis dismisses, irritated now, “I think we’ve established that we’re both shady characters, alright.”

“Not quite to do with magic, I don’t think?” Harry continues like he didn’t hear him. “But, like… there’s _something_. Maybe that’s why I was so drawn to you in the first place and why you’re—”

“You’re drawn to me?” Louis interrupts suddenly. He doesn’t fight the urge to grin, revels in the redness that floods Harry’s pale cheeks.

Harry levels him an unimpressed look. “That’s really not the point we need to be focusing on here.”

He’s blushing.

Louis grins wider.

“Oh, I definitely think it’s _a_ point here. I’d like to discuss this more, please. A much better topic than possibly being hunted by evil beings.”

“We need to go.”

“Hang on—”

“Now.”

“Just a sec—”

“Louis!”

“ _Fine_ ,” Louis says, hard, maybe even a little turned on by Harry’s assertive side, which is so not the time right now. “Get in the driver’s seat then, mister. Hop to it.”

Louis winks at him, feeling his inhibitions peel back one by one.

Harry doesn’t look amused. “You won’t be smiling like that when we get jumped and stabbed through the chest on the side of a beat-up road with a fucking sword, or when our bodies are dragged to a cave and resurrected to lead a ghost army, doomed for eternity.”

He glares at Louis.

“That was a very morbid and vivid scenario, Harry.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Harry says grimly, climbing into the front seat and settling his hands and feet in position and on the pedals. He twists to put his seatbelt on.

Louis gapes at him in mild horror.

“What?” Harry shrugs.

He turns the ignition, a deep scowl on his face. “Right, okay. So. From here to Nottingham, it should take us about an hour and half down the M1, depending on the traffic, so. Not too long a drive.”

“Hang on,” Louis says. “Do you need anything else before we definitely, really get on the road?”

“Like what?”

“Like, a wee?”

“What?”

“I’m just asking you. If you’ve got a weak bladder, now is the time to go to the toilet. I don’t want us to be stopping every ten minutes.”

Harry just looks at Louis, bemused for several seconds, and then what Louis hoped would happen, does. Harry’s mouth stubbornly tries to ward off a quirk of his lips, but it doesn’t last long. He smiles until it’s a full out grin and then he’s giggling.

Louis exhales a laugh of his own. He feels better, clearer-headed, apart from the deep exhaustion. “Uh, something funny?” He folds his arms with put on haughtiness.

Harry’s giggles get louder, unabashed. Louis’ sort of losing it a bit right now. He’s the sweetest thing he’s ever seen, large pale hands uncoordinated and half-covering his mouth to stifle his sudden fit of laughter.

“Okay, well, if you need to take a piss in fifteen minutes after I specifically _asked_ if you needed to go, then I’m dumping your lanky arse on the side of the road before we’ve even left the town. Alright? No amazingly-fun-Louis-road trip for you. You can sort your own mess out.”

Harry’s still grinning so hard it looks like it’s physically painful, dimples so deep in his cheeks that Louis wants to poke his fingers in them.

“Are you okay? Are you ill? Are you having a nervous breakdown now, too?”

Louis has no idea what’s suddenly happening; he’s unleashed a monster. Harry’s giggles have turned into full-out belly laughs, and he’s bending over, slapping his knees and then slapping a hand over his mouth abruptly, eyes widening at the shocking noise that just slipped out.

The long night must be catching up to them. They're hysterical messes. 

“Oi. Are we going to have problems here?” He points an accusatory finger toward Harry’s chest, closing the short gap between them until his knees bump Harry’s where he’s perched on Louis’ mess of a desk.

Harry’s smile softens at the contact. Louis pokes a finger in his chest, dangerously close to Harry’s nipple.

So, of course he twists it.

Quick as a flash, Harry gasping, “Ah!”, and hunching in on himself, too late to protect his decency, and Louis jumps backwards.

“Oh, sorry. Did I get you?” he grins.

“They’ll be no nipple abuse. Or I’ll make you vomit toads.”

Louis gives him a disgusted look. “Are you joking?”

“Yeah,” Harry laughs, proud.

"Let's just go, before I really regret this," Louis says, his tone much softer than he intends, attempting to stop himself lingering on Harry's smile before he does something stupid. 

Like kiss him.

 

***

 

They’re forty-five minutes into the journey—what should be the halfway point—but they’ve a hit monstrous line of traffic on the M1, a queue that doesn’t look like it’s going to be moving anytime soon.

Louis taps his fingers incessantly against the window, pressing his nose further into the glass that he’s leaning his face against for no reason other than boredom. He shoots Harry a sideways glance. The other boy’s hair has truly frizzed outwards now, a deep crease denting the flushed skin between his brows, both hands on the wheel despite the fact they’re going nowhere for the time being. He just looks so adorably grumpy, fidgeting in his position, back rigid. And perhaps Louis is craving his attention.

Though he knows Harry must be feeling tense, anxious. He obviously wants to speed this journey along and get to Brooke as soon as he’s physically able to, undo the curse—or find a way, at least—and then start to deal with their next problem: their disturbing dreams, visions, whatever they are, and stop them.

Louis' not ready to think about that part yet.

It does, however, mean Harry is surely about to become a more regular fixture in Louis' life.

That part he's more than okay to think about.

They're already fast friends.

They’ve had a ridiculous squabble over which radio channel to play so far, a game of Eye Spy that ended in Louis wishing he had a fucking cigarette because Harry kept on choosing the letter C on purpose, repeatedly, for the word Cow, and a toilet break at a petrol garage because Louis had downed two bottles of water already, much to Harry’s growing annoyance, and Louis' enjoyed every second of it.

“Ugh,” Harry growls, “when are we bloody moving?” He hits the wheel in frustration, notices the bandage around his palm has come loose and starts to wind it tighter. Louis’ hands itch to do it for him.

“There’s no point in getting worked up, Harry. We’ll move when we move,” Louis says.

“Yeah,” Harry sighs. “You’re right. Just annoying.”

His bracelets are sliding up and down his slender wrist with every aborted, frustrated movement he makes at the non-moving traffic. Louis’ eyes wander from his hands to his arms, to the straps of his dungarees pooling at his waist, trail to his pale neck and the freckles there, making his way back to Harry’s face. There’s a spot coming up by his bottom lip. His full, plump, very pink lip. Louis studies it closely, imagining a scenario where he’d lean to kiss the other boy and Harry’d melt against Louis’ mouth immediately.

Louis’ stomach swirls and dips and flips.

God.  

“So, are you going to let me drive at any point?” he asks Harry, just for something to distract himself from wanting to lunge at Harry’s face and disgrace himself from ever having the chance to hang out with this miraculous, whimsical boy again.

“We’re not going anywhere for a while, are we?” Harry gestures the line of cars in front of them that travels far ahead, way into the distance of the motorway until they just look like tiny Lego cars.

“Yeah, but. What about on the way back?”

Harry hums noncommittally.

“Is that a yes?”

“We’ll see.”

“It’s _my_ van,” Louis retorts, on the verge of literal whining. “I’m _fine_ , honestly. I feel back to normal now. A bit tired still, but.”

Harry smiles, shaking his head, which only makes Louis want to smile, which only makes him more indignant that Harry is making him want to smile when he wants to kiss him so badly. And. Uh. Yeah. He might have been staring at Harry’s mouth for most of the drive so far.

It’s not a big deal.

“I’ll be the judge of that. Your mind is clearly vulnerable to magic, more so than other non-magical people, so, I’d rather I did the driving. Safer.”

Louis snorts.

Harry merely looks him up and down and turns his eyes back to the road ahead.

Louis scoffs in outrage.

“I know the way,” Harry says, laughing as he tries to duck out of the way of Louis’ hands that pull at Harry’s t-shirt and shove him lightly about. “Stop it!”

Louis ceases his terrorising and stares sternly at the row of cars either side of them, pressing them in. “Can’t you like, do something,” he says, his impatience growing.

“Like?”

“I dunno. You’re the one who practices witchcraft.”

“I can’t just cast a spell here. Besides, what good would it do? I can’t make us pass through like Moses.”

“You can’t just flick your wrist and make us disappear?”

“Not just like that,” Harry smiles, amused. “I can for other stuff, but not this. For obvious reasons. Don’t you think people will notice if a bright orange van just vanishes?”

He has a point. Still, Louis would have thought Harry could speed up the queue.

“Well you’re a great help, aren’t you,” Louis says, tone dripping with sarcasm around a smirk.

“I am, thank you!” Harry grins.

“If you’re going to keep up that cheek, let me know now, so I can drive off without you when we get there.”

He pretends he doesn’t see the pouty look on Harry’s face as he sinks down into the passenger seat and closes his eyes.

 

 

***

 

 

Another two hours of word games, bordering-flirtatious banter, another stop for more snacks, too much staring at Harry's lips, and some silly childhood stories later (Harry's involved a worrying amount of wandering off in the woods alone and talking to the furry creatures that lived there), they finally passed the threshold for Nottingham. Harry put his foot down, racing confidently down a series of country roads, Louis holding onto the roof with his arms out the window, the warm air brushing the hair on his arm.

"We’re here,” Harry says now, sitting back and exhaling for a moment before he releases his seatbelt.

Louis blearily blinks his eyes open and sits up, undoes his own and stretches his arms out with a yawn as he takes in their vast surroundings. He does a double take, gaping.

"This is where she lives? She lives _here_? Are you serious?"

In front of the van stands what Louis is convinced is a stately home. A manor. A fucking enormous grand house.

It stands tall, imposing and made of red brick, black lining the multiple windows and archways, each obscured by diamond-patterned glass. There's ivy leaves covering patches of brickwork between the windows, three separate roof levels each hold a low-lying ebony brass fence, like spikes on a cathedral. Lush oak trees stand bordering either side, the ground a white patio and red pebbled driveway, a matching fountain in the centre before the top balcony. 

Louis' surprised there aren't bloody gargoyles too.

And there’s something eerie about it, deep-rooted and rich with history.

“It was passed down to Brooke by her great-grandmother,” Harry says, breaking the silence that’s seeped into the van.

“This is some inheritance," Louis says, raising a brow. "It’s incredible. And she actually chooses to live here?”

“Yeah, and hopefully she’s in.”

They exit the van and walk up the massive driveway, passing rows of planted flowers and bushes that line the chalky pathway to the door that’s twice the size of both of them.

There’s a black crow-shaped brass knocker in the centre. Louis watches as Harry raps it twice.

They stand on the doorstep for a minute, both shifting on the spot awkwardly and squinting in the sun. It’s still only the early afternoon and the heat is boiling up steadily.

Harry fiddles with fastening the straps of his dungarees over his shoulders as they wait, visibly growing more and more anxious. “Shall I try again?”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s a big house. She might not have heard you,” Louis offers, eyeing the other boy worriedly.

Harry knocks another few times, louder, more forcefully.

There’s no sign of movement from any other the windows.

Harry tries again.

Still no answer.

“Brooke?” Harry calls up to the house. He takes some steps back, looking up towards the front bedrooms. “Aunt Brooke! It’s me! It’s Harry! Are you home?”

“Do you know of a key hidden anywhere?” Louis suggests. “Any back doors that might be unlocked?”

“No, it’s too risky for that. This house, it’s centuries old. There’s a lot of relics in here that are irreplaceable. Powerful. There’s a whole library’s worth of texts and scrolls that if they made their way into the wrong hands… Brooke wouldn’t leave anything unlocked. She’s very particular.”

Louis walks back up to the door, studying the perfectly glossed wood closely. He feels a shiver run down his back, goosebumps breaking out over his lightly tanned skin.

He turns around to look at Harry, who’s still gazing up at the top tier of the house, hands shielding his eyes from the blaze of the sun’s rays.

Louis looks back at the door, an inexplicable sense of recognition passing over him like a caress. Without thinking, he gently presses his fingertips against the door, breath hitching when the door loudly creaks, swinging slowly open.

“Um… Harry?” he says, staring at the exposed wide-set hallway, at the dark marble floor.

He feels Harry rush to stand beside him, their bare arms brushing. It sends another sharp shock through Louis at the barely-there touch, but that’s not what he’s focused on right now. He flicks his gaze toward Harry.

Harry looks stricken.

Because there, at the bottom of the curved, steep staircase, is a puddle of what looks like blood.

 


	6. vi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, is this me updating twice in one week?? Maybe so! xx

 

The staircase is quite a distance from where they stand in the doorway, but a gut feeling that presses insistently against Louis’ insides still tells him that what’s lying at the edge of the grand bottom step, spread out on the marble floor, likely isn’t just some spilled red wine.

The amount of times Louis’ been faced with the image of blood recently is too many to count. Bloody hands, bloody trails, bloody footprints. Granted, they weren’t in real life—they were just in his hideous _dreams_ —but still. Seeing a pool of what’s probably blood in person isn’t the nicest experience to have. Especially when you don’t know where it came from. Or _how_ it came to be there. And all while standing in the doorway of a stately home, which is probably centuries old, full of secrets and lifetimes and harbours its fair share of horrors in these dark walls, Louis’ sure. He feels like shivering all of a sudden, uncomfortably vulnerable and uncertain about where this is going to lead, questioning why he’s even here and how he can shield Harry from possibly stumbling into something terrible. Which is—ridiculous.

Because Harry’s more than capable of taking care of himself. Here he is, armed with literal _magic_ , for fuck’s sake, and Louis isn’t so much as armed with a fucking pen. And yet Louis still wants to protect Harry, feels this inexplicable _need_ to, unable to shake the sense that something very bad happened here. He’s struck with an almost overwhelming urge to grab hold of Harry’s hand and just run. It’s just there. Now. The need to run and take Harry with him shuddering throughout his body, sunken deep into his bones, his flesh.

His insides feel like they’re sloshing about, a wave of nausea hitting him suddenly.

So—that’s where he’s at.

“Is that—” Louis starts uneasily, lifting a hand to uselessly point at the crimson patch on the floor, as though Harry isn’t already seeing it and staring wide-eyed with a rapidly paling face. Still. Louis avoids saying the word _blood_ out loud, doesn’t want to upset Harry, just in case—

Oh, god. Please don’t be blood. “That can’t be—right?”

It’s almost cold in here, or at least cold in stark contrast to the heat outside. Louis hopes it’s just the build of the house, that maybe there’s air-con built in, and not because of a more sinister reason.

He really, really needs this to not be sinister or he’ll definitely have a breakdown.

He looks up at the wide, cream marble steps.

There appears to be a few smudged bloody footprints.

Right then. Sinister is more than a possibility.

Harry opens his mouth, which twists slightly, eyes flickering around the room frantically.

Louis watches him still for a moment, unsure of what to do or say, is about to suggest they go over and check it out, play it off as casual and not as possibly life-changing for Harry as it could be, when Harry abruptly begins to stride inside the manor, shoulders set and rigid, until he gets to the bottom of the intricately-weaved, marble staircase, the ivory banister curving as the height increases, and crouches down, staring intently at the dark crimson pool on the cusp of meeting the tips of his Converse.

He turns his head to look at Louis, face etched in anxiety, eyes very wide. “I think it is.” He lowers his hand to dip a cautious fingertip into the liquid.

Louis swallows, a dullness settling between his temples.

“Ah,” Harry yelps, flinching suddenly, whipping his hand back, cradling it with his bandaged hand, the off-white fabric stained with dried dark patches that have seeped through from the wound.

“What? What is it?” Louis asks, alarmed, hovering in the ornate doorway.

“No, it’s fine—I’m—it’s just—cold. Freezing, actually.” Harry’s now murky gaze slides back to Louis.

“It’s definitely…”

They keep each other’s gaze for a moment.

“Blood. Yeah,” Harry confirms quietly.

Louis’ brows pull together, very unhappy with that answer. Fuck, is what he doesn’t say.

“So, it’s been here a while, then?”

Still, it’s so hot out. How could it possibly be so cold? Not that he knows what he’s getting at. He just doesn’t like this house. He’s decided already. It gives him a bad feeling, a vibe that he can’t place. It’s unsettling. Spooky. Which, how ironic, considering he now hangs out with a witch.

The back of Harry’s head nods. “Would you close the door, Louis,” he asks, voice small, “please.”

“Yeah, of course,” Louis answers breathlessly, nods once, stepping fully inside the large, daunting and desolate space of the hallway, cast in shadows and gloomy lighting. It’s in desperate need of some windows, just to let some damn light in. It’s also seemingly partly Victorian-furnished, this part of the house unchanged and unmodernised, Louis thinks. It’s more than slightly creepy, detached and unforgiving. He has no idea what Harry’s aunt is like, what she looks like, even, but if she was sixteen when Harry was born, she must still only be about thirty-four. Nowhere near old enough to be stuck in a stuffy, old-fashioned manor house. Louis couldn’t imagine ever living here, wanting to spend time here. Unless it was hosting a wild, fancy party that soon turned into mayhem.

Louis tugs on the hem on his Ninja Turtles tee, feeling painfully out of place. “Does she live alone? Brooke?” he asks, voice sounding too loud in the echoing silence of the entrance hall. Because that’s what it is, isn’t it? Louis’ home has a hallway. This isn’t a front hallway, it’s practically the foyer of a posh theatre.

“Uh, yeah,” Harry answers absently. “She doesn’t live with anyone else that I know of, anyway.”

“No housemates? At all? Cleaners? A housekeeper?” Louis raises his hand and begins carefully pushing the heavy door shut behind him, a loud click echoing through the wide space and leaving them in not a great deal of light, the walls a dark grey. “Surely a house like this would need a larger maintenance?”

Harry shrugs, subdued, mouth slack. “I mean, I think she just does things herself. She doesn’t need a cleaner, not when she can make everything tidy herself.”

“With a flick of her wrist,” Louis remembers. “Obviously. Duh. She’s a witch. Keep forgetting you lot can do magic.”

Harry manages a small smile, but it vanishes as quickly as it appears. Louis feels a pang.

He frowns around the room, walking slowly, fingertips hovering over things mid-air, studying every object, vase and weird ornament suspiciously. There’s an aura about the room, unfriendly, to say the least. And yes, he realises he really has nothing concrete to base this on, other than not liking the Gothic decor and the fact there’s unexplained blood on the floor, but just being here—the house in general doesn’t sit well with Louis, for reasons he can’t even explain.

He just knows it doesn’t feel right, aware that vague images are starting to flicker behind his eyes. He pushes them away, feeling a bit sick at the thought of what it might mean. He says as much to Harry. “I don’t have a great feeling, Harry. No offence, but this place gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

He doesn't have a plausible explanation. Nor for anything else he’s been feeling and experiencing either. His dreams, his blackouts, the possibility that what he’s seeing are memories or visions or who knows the fuck.

And if that doesn’t scare the complete shit out of him.

He walks up to Harry, intending on nudging his hand gently with Harry’s, when a harsh shock jerks his hand away, making him jump backwards, eyes wide.

Harry stares at Louis with eyes just as wide.

“What just happened?” Louis asks, heart thumping rapidly behind his ribs.

Harry searches Louis’ face in confusion, his eyes darting across his features rapidly.

“Harry?” Louis prods firmer. “That isn’t the first time something weird has happened when I’ve—when we’ve touched—”

“When our skin has brushed,” Harry finishes, eyes growing wider. Louis would laugh if he wasn’t so freaked out. His pulse is racing. “I know. I can’t explain why either.”

“No, but—I bandaged your hand, remember? I touched your hand then? Nothing felt weird, or—” _hurt_ , he leaves out—” I didn’t feel a shock or anything? Did you? A tingling sensation, maybe but.”

Harry blinks rapidly, seemingly lost in putting something together. He averts his gaze, fists clenched at his sides, his chest rising and falling intermittently.

Louis watches the other boy closely, fixes on the fear creased under his eyes, the murkiness that’s swirling in his irises.

“I have to search the house over,” Harry says suddenly, rapidly, shooting upright, purposefully beginning to walk further into the house, towards what Louis assumes is where the kitchen and living areas are. He looks so out of place and yet at the same time seems ethereal, like he could have walked in from any age or time period.

A shiver trickles through Louis at Harry’s retreating figure.

“Wait, I’ll come with you,” he calls, jogging to reach Harry’s side.

Harry gives him a meaningful look and they enter the kitchen quietly, their steps cautious.

It’s a huge space, a long and narrow kitchen island in the centre of the kitchen, the surfaces a sleek dark brown. There’s brass pots and pans hanging from a rail attached to the ceiling and there’s actually light, wide-set windows with diamond shaped glass.

Eyeing the mess on the floor as they walk further inside, Louis feels suddenly drained, _exhausted_ , as though he can feel the sensation deeply rooted in his bones. He shuts his eyes, trying to push away the uneasiness.

When he reopens them, Harry is watching him closely, brows pinched with worry, eyes searching Louis’ face, darting across his features. He notices Harry’s forehead has gotten a little sweaty, the ends of his damn curls damp. He’s also paled significantly. “Are you okay?” he all but whispers.

“Are you?” Louis counters, voice soft, concerned.

“I’m—” Harry cuts himself off, shoulders slumping in resignation. “No, I’m not okay, but I feel a bit dizzy, if we’re being honest. A bit sick, too.”

“Understandable,” Louis says, wanting to reach out and offer comfort. Their hands twitch and tremble in equal measure. They don’t touch.

“Yeah,” Harry exhales, expression crumpling. Louis’ heart constricts.

“Hey, I’m sure it’s—I’m sure she’s fine. Right?”

“Yeah,” Harry repeats.

“Yeah,” Louis agrees kindly, “and that’s a thing we need to keep up, yeah? Honesty? Tell you what. When one of us is feeling off, we tell each other and make a note of when and where we felt that way?”

“As like a diary?”

“Yeah. I dunno. Maybe it’ll be useful to us later. Tell us something. When and what we’re feeling...maybe it’s tied into what’s been going on with us? And maybe help Brooke out a bit, yeah? When we find her and tell her about our dreams?” Louis nudges his arm slightly with his elbow. An intense spark flickers between them, not visibly, but it’s there. Louis feels it, humming beneath his skin, making his heart race, his throat dry.

He can see Harry feels it, too, his green eyes intense and vibrant, widening as they seek Louis’ eyes. Staying there. Watching, be it with awe or curiosity or terror, Louis can’t really tell. Probably all of them. God knows Louis finds this terrifying.

He pulls his gaze away from Harry, feeling a tightness in his chest. Is this what it feels like to have a super intense crush? Louis’ kinda worried that what he’s feeling in the other boy’s presence is a supernatural occurrence at this point.

Fuck, maybe it is. Maybe that’s exactly what this is. Louis frowns, letting his gaze wander. As he scans around the kitchen, it becomes clearer there might have been some sort of struggle, though whether it was between Brooke and her magic, or Brooke and someone else, there’s no way to know unless they find her.

There’s several vases and ceramic bowls, like the one Harry has, scattered across the work surfaces, a pile of other plates and bowls and containers dumped in the massive deep sink, but they’re mostly smashed, broken, the shards of multi-coloured glass showered across the dark tiles.

Glass remnants aren’t all there is either.

There’s more blood.

Harry zeroes in on the almost dried patches of scarlet, tensing.

“Do you think that’s also—” _Your aunt’s blood,_ Louis leaves unsaid.

“I don’t know.”

"God, what happened in here," Louis says, eyeing the broken glass of the side of one window, the bashed in cupboards that look a very expensive design. A couple of stalls are also overturned on the tiles. “Is there anything you can do to find out? Like, a spell, perhaps? It might just be that she dropped something, cut her hand? Something as simple as that?" It sounds ridiculously unlikely to even his own ears. The evidence is right here on the floors.

Harry doesn't seem to have heard him, though. He's staring intently at the blood. He neither looks distressed or particularly calm, his face more passive than anything else.

The whole place feels eerie and Louis would very much like to leave.

“Aunt Brooke’s always told me that if something happens," Harry suddenly speaks, "if I can’t find her, can't get it in contact with magic, then I need to look in her secret place. She said she’d try her hardest to always leave me a coded note of some kind in a particular place, somewhere that only I’d know where to look, no matter what trouble she was in.” Harry’s tone is determined, but there’s an edge of uncertainty, as though he isn’t sure whether to commit fully to what she told him, to pin all his hopes on it. “I think she must have left me something. To find her with. She has to have done.”

“And you know where that is? Her secret place?”

“Yeah,” Harry nods resolutely. “Upstairs.”

“Alright,” Louis exhales, eyeing the other boy’s gaze that’s hooked on a spot outside through the windows, “come on, let’s go then. The quicker we find the note she hopefully left, the quicker we can get out of here and do as she says.”

Harry immediately shakes his head in answer.

“No, it’s better if I look on my own. You stay here. Or, um, stay in the van. Yeah. That might be better. Safer," he says, not looking at him, his eyes still focused elsewhere in the distance. He seems twitchy, uncomfortable, brows pinched. His thumb and forefinger press the top of his nose.

"Safer?" Louis frowns, not liking this at all.

“Go on. I’ll be as quick as I can,” Harry tells Louis lightly, as though he doesn’t look like a storm is brewing within his insides.

“Harry, come on, this house is massive. Won’t it be quicker if I just come with you to help look?”

“No, I—” Harry cuts off, sniffs harshly, a hand flinging up to bury itself in his hair. A loose strand of hair falls into his eye. He brushes it away quickly, bracelets sliding down his pale, slender wrist. He meets Louis’ confused stare. “I need to check the rooms on my own.”

“Are you sure you don’t need me to be a look out? Might be monsters under the beds, Harry. I can be terrifying when I want to be. I’ll have your back? Promise?” Louis tries to catch Harry’s gaze, his face seemingly battling his reluctance to let Louis come with him.

“I just need to see if she’s here, Louis, or if there’s a note. There has to be a note,” Harry says, quiet and under his breath. He briefly closes his eyes, brows pinched.

Louis opens his mouth to protest again, because the idea of leaving Harry alone in here like this, with god knows what waiting for him, he hates it. Feels the overwhelming urge to stick hard to Harry’s side and not let him out of his sight for anything. Shit, he’s this close to asking to accompany Harry to the fucking toilet, which is madness.

But fortunately, he doesn’t get the chance to embarrass himself.

“Louis, I really appreciate you looking out for me, but please will you wait in the van?” Harry pleads, eyes round and imploring, that full mouth twisted into the beginning of an oncoming grimace.

 _In case I find a body_ , Louis thinks Harry’s not saying. The thought lies acrid and unwelcome within the brain fog that’s crept up on him, at the abrupt turn this trip has suddenly taken.

Louis desperately refrains himself from pelting more questions at Harry, mind whirring with possibilities, and bizarrely, a sense of déjà vu, though Louis’ never stepped into one of these places in his life. He’s not even been to many museums or stately homes for school trips, other than Hampton Court Palace when he was about fourteen.

“Okay. Sure.” He takes a step backwards, hands shoved into the pockets of his jean shorts. “I’ll wait in the van.”

There’s a deep crease between Harry’s brows now, serious and grave and determined. He nods once and then halts his steps, swivelling back around.

“Louis?”

“Yeah?” Louis answers immediately.

“Thank you,” Harry says with a cautious half-smile.

“What for?” Louis asks in surprise.

Harry shrugs, “For being here, I guess? I just. I’m glad you’re here.” He’s still smiling softly, small and blooming. He pauses, smile slipping away. “I won’t be long. Stay in the van, yeah?”

“I’ll be waiting,” Louis agrees, smiling back in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. “I hope—well, if you find her, or a note, or anything, I hope she’s okay.”

“Me too,” Harry says, turns, and stalks away swiftly into what Louis guesses is the kitchen.

Louis waits a moment, eyes tracing the stairs one more time, the crushing niggling voice in the back of his mind telling him he’s been here before.

 

***

 

Almost thirty minutes have gone by and Louis’ going a little bit mad, taking his building anxiety out on his nails, biting them within an inch of their lives. He’s swaddled between the piles of mismatched cushions and blankets—sweltering, yes—slowly succumbing to his wild imagination and all the ways in which Harry may have been jumped and is currently partaking in a magic duel, glass smashing and sending the shards flying everywhere, yelling for Louis because he can’t hold off the creep gargoyle slash man.

“Jesus,” Louis mutters, sighing and burying his face in the nearest pillow—it smells a bit like musty sweat. Gross. He climbs into the front seats and rolls down both windows all the way—the risk of someone jumping into the driver’s seat be damned—he needs some air, or what little there is. “He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine,” he says to himself.

He crawls back, returning his to his position slumping against the mountain of crap.

It’s fine. Harry’s fine. It hasn’t even been that long.

He shuts his eyes, exhaling, trying to focus on the rational side of his brain.

Louis supposes there _are_ a lot of rooms to get through in that creepy house, loads, on each floor probably, and rationally he knows that, but he can’t calm down his perpetually erratic heartbeat, wondering where Harry is now and what he’s found or hasn’t found. Does he need help? Is he in distress? Has he found Brooke’s note?

Does Louis need to ignore Harry’s pleas to stay in the van and go in there anyway?

And then Louis remembers Harry’s a witch and can easily defend himself from monsters or ghouls or other supernatural beings and evil people, so.

All Louis has is a booster water pistol. It can do some serious damage if he wanted it to. He’s holding onto it now. You know, in case it’s needed. Squirt an axe murderer in the eyes. Enough time to distract them while their vision is compromised, and off they go. Louis and Harry. In this orange campervan. Off on their adventure.

An adventure that entails trying to figure out how to break a curse—a so far unnameable family curse.

As one does.

As apparently Louis now does because he’s a bit of a weirdo himself and he just can’t keep his nose out of this lovely boy’s business.

Louis exhales, craving a cigarette, or something to smoke, at least. He wonders how much fun in the sun and by the pool his mum and Amy are having with his aunties. Lying out on the beach, sand between their toes, traipsing around town looking for keepsakes to buy, picking out the ugliest beaded jewellery they can find. Amy probably immediately asked their mum to buy her a Lilo in the most ridiculous shape she can find. Neon yellow and takes up too much space and will most definitely be driving mum mad in the hotel room.

He misses them. He only saw them yesterday, but it feels like weeks since he found Harry climbing down the drainpipe.

Louis smiles softly to himself, feeling drained and sleepy, yawning widely and snuggling into the pile of blankets and the barely-there coolness of the duvets further. It could be thirty-five degrees at night and Louis would still wrap himself in his duvet to sleep in.

But he can’t nod off. Not yet. There’s Harry.

Who really should be back by now, and the longer he takes, the stronger the urge to go back in after him.

God, he needs a smoke.

Actually.

He heaves himself upright and rolls over to reach the small cupboard next to the mini fridge and opens it up to reveal a bottom drawer. He tugs it open, rummaging around all the crap in here and pulls out a half empty packet of cigarettes.

Sweet Jesus, thank you.

He takes one and is just about to put it between his lips when the door slides open, effectively making Louis jump out of his fucking skin.

“Fuck, Harry! You scared the shit out of me.” Louis places his hand over his heart.

Harry looks… happy? Very happy, even.

“Sorry,” Harry instantly replies, giggling, covering his mouth his fist. 

“Are you okay?” Louis asks, eyes narrowed, ready to check for bruises and blood-soaked wounds.

Harry nods, calm. Relaxed. Miles more comfortable than he was less than an hour ago.

Louis’ eyes narrow further.

“Did you find what you need? Was everything okay in there?” he asks slowly, bemused by Harry’s beaming smile as he climbs clumsily inside the van and slides the door closed, almost falling into Louis’ lap, or on top of him anyway, and. Well. Louis’ not opposed to having Harry’s body on top of him. By any means. Would welcome it, in fact. Because you know, Louis has eyes and ears and a heart and a… yeah.

Louis’ hand instinctively clutches loosely at Harry’s waist to steady him. His stomach flips, distinctly aware of every cell in his body as Harry settles in next to Louis, still smiling. At Louis. His gaze soft and watchful, laced with affection. Louis stares back.

Their legs are touching. Harry's thigh presses close to Louis' knee, almost like it’s purposeful.

Louis’ eyes narrow further, slightly incredulous, his pulse speeding up drastically.

"Sure?" he asks again.

"Everything's fine. False alarm. It’s great, even,” Harry say, grinning, and produces a slip of paper, holding it up in Louis’ face.

Louis blinks.

“And that is?”

“It’s from Aunt Brooke. She did what she told me,” Harry explains, infinitely calmer and perkier and just in an all-round wonderful mood. Louis is sort of marvelling at him. “I knew she would," he smiles. "It took me a while, but eventually I found it. Had to use magic to help me out. Which was a bit risky because I wasn’t sure who was around or if I'd draw attention to myself. But there was nothing or no one else I could find in there. So that's one less thing to worry about.”

“Thank fuck it is. I had half a mind to go barging in to get you. Armed with this.” Louis holds up the water pistol. Harry laughs, dimples flashing.

“Well, I found what I was looking for.”

Harry looks down at it in his hands, running his thumbs carefully, reverently over the note’s surface.

Louis smiles, relief and gladness washing over him.

“What does it say, then? Do you know where she is?”

“Yep,” Harry smiles again, and Louis never wants it to stop. “And there’s something else,” he says, eyes sparking with excitement.

“Yeah?” Louis prompts, drawling the word out and grinning.

“She knows what the curse is,” Harry says, tone proud, “ _and_ she said knows how to _break_ it. She knows how to stop it, Louis!”

“Well, fuck, Curly Boy,” Louis claps, “that’s excellent news!” Harry squeezes Louis’ knee in agreement and Louis almost chokes on air.

“There’s just a long list of rare ingredients for the spell and so she’s had to leave to find them."

"Will those be tricky to find?" Louis croaks, still burning where Harry’s hand touched him.  _Calm down, Jesus_ , he tells himself sternly, heart still beating wildly in his chest.

"A bit, yeah." Harry's soft expression falters. "That’s why she isn’t here. She left as soon as she had the list. Also, someone tried to break in and there was a tussle but she’s fine. She got rid of them.”

“Who tried that?”

“A wilder demon,” Harry says offhandedly, like it’s no fucking big deal that an actual demon tried to attack his aunt? What the fuck?

“Holy fuck,” is Louis’ eloquent response, eyes blown wide.

“She nearly lost an ankle, but she’s fine." Louis' mouth falls open. "That explains the blood we saw. And the mess in the kitchen. Also, in one of the bedrooms on the second floor, the demon had basically exploded in there. Guts. Blood. On everything. It looks like a massacre. Which it was.” Harry’s tone is so blasé that Louis might have an aneurysm from disbelief. “So, I’m glad you didn’t come with me,” he says, face apologetic.

Louis can only stare, wide-eyed and gawping. “Fucking so am I.”

Harry might a quiet noise in his throat, biting back another smile.

“Anyway, she said to meet her at her hideaway cottage in Sherwood Forest."

"Is that a joke?" Louis squints.

"No?" Harry replies confusedly.

"Okay." Louis blinks. "Carry on."

"Well, the cottage is protected by magic and can only been seen by a witch from her bloodline unless it’s been freed of its glamours. Otherwise to anyone else it looks like a beaten-down shed. And if anyone tried to get in it’d protect itself.”

Louis frowns. “By?”

“It has its methods,” Harry nods cryptically.

Louis stares, brows raised.

“I assume that’s where we’re going, then?”

“Not yet. She won’t be there for another three days if everything goes to plan, so. That’s the downside. I wanted to break the curse asap, but well. If Brooke finds everything, it’s taken care of. Then we can begin casting the spell and she needs me to help her anyway.”

“Okay, so there’s nothing we can speed up, regardless. So. Might as well relax for a bit, eh? Before the real hard work starts?”

Harry releases a breath. “I guess so, yeah,” he smiles, eyes calm, composed, a world of tension lifted from his previously tense shoulders. “We can breathe for a while.”

“Alright, good,” Louis smiles. “So where to next, Curly?”

“You call me Curly now?” Harry quirks an amused brow.

“Oh, yeah. Course. Look at your hair,” Louis giggles, unable to resist tugging on a particularly frizzy ringlet.

Harry blushes bright pink.

“You look hot, Harry,” Louis says casually, biting back a grin as Harry visibly swallows.

“Huh?” Harry says dazedly, eyes filling with surprise.

“Hot. You look really hot, your cheeks are red. Sweaty forehead, too.” Louis presses a sly smile between his chapped lips. Which reminds him: hydration. He passes Harry a water bottle and takes one himself, starting to drink.

And Harry’s focus goes right to the point where Louis’ lips are wrapped around the top. Interesting. Harry takes a drink of his own.

Louis can’t resist smirking.

Harry clears his throat. He looks away but Louis can still see the grin that’s spreading over his face.

Louis’ chest gives a little flutter.

“Hey, um. Do you think we could take a nap before we start driving again?” Harry asks, breaking the short stretch of silence.

“Yeah, that’s not a bad idea,” Louis agrees, yawning as if on cue.

“Okay,” Harry says softly.

They lie down, not very far apart, Louis notices, throat still dry despite downing half a bottle of water. He watches as Harry shifts around, trying to find a comfortable position on top of the duvet, puffing up a pillow and pressing the side of his face into it, cheeks blotchy pink, eyes glazed, lips crimson.

Louis wonders what else is going to happen in the coming days, belly swooping at the countless possibilities.

Harry sniffles, swiping his fringe out of his eyes. They curl on their sides, facing each other, mirroring with their arms resting underneath their heads, and fall asleep almost instantly.

 

***

 

They’re in a park, sitting beside each other on the swings in comfortable silence, the tips of the toes touching the cooling asphalt underneath them as they gently sway, exchanging somewhat shy and uncertain smiles, biting on lips and unnecessarily fussing over their hair.

And Louis is just looking.

Looking at Harry’s hair, bathed in blue light, looking at the way it tints his pale skin, darkens his lips a little. He stares at his long eyelashes, dipped in charcoal, the slope of his nose, the solidness of his exposed neck, trying with little success to ignore the incessant fluttering having a party in his tummy.

His chest feels a bit tight, too. Is that normal?

Louis’ eyes remain on Harry anyway, whose gaze is fixed on a spot in the distance, where the edge of the woods begin, and where a small group of teenagers are lying on the grass drinking from what are probably cider cans. A couple of them are snogging. Their spot is quite a distance from where they’re sitting, but Louis can’t tell that much.

Harry tucks a loose curl behind his ear. Louis gulps thickly.

After they woke up around six from their nap, they decided to drive around to find somewhere to eat, stopping at a Wimpy for a burger and chips and a milkshake, their bellies now full and sated, exhaustion seeping into their bones, loosening their eyes and slackening their expressions, and agreed to stop here for a bit, take a pause before getting back in the van, stretch their legs. There’s not much leg stretching going on.

Just a lot of— _looking_.

It’s getting dark, the sky saturated by a wonderfully vibrant mauve mixed with a darker blue, the air still muggy and their skin tacky, but significantly cooler, the grass faintly damp with dew. They probably smell pretty bad by now, but they have been in each other’s space for almost eighteen hours, so Louis guesses they’ve grown immune to it. There’s nothing that’d repel Louis from wanting to bury his nose in Harry's neck anyway.

It’s a bit pathetic.

He hops off the swing and spreads out on the grass, hoping Harry will follow. It’s much cooler down here, like a soothing balm, relieving the tackiness stuck to his overheated skin.

Harry does follow, lying down beside him, hands atop his stomach.

“So,” Louis says, disturbing the quiet that’s settled between them. Harry’s eyes instantly find his, his neck even paler against the dark grass. Louis’ throat is getting dry again.

“So,” Harry echoes, voice soft, eyes droopy.

“How come you never really talked to me before yesterday?”

Harry looks at him with an odd expression. “What do you mean?”

“Like, how come we haven’t hung out sooner?” Louis asks. “You said you felt drawn to me before, right?” he smirks a little.

Even in the darkening light, he can tell Harry’s blushing.

“If you wanted to be mates, you could have come up to me, you know. We live next door to each other, even,” he chuckles. “It’d be an easy friendship to keep up. No long-distance problem.”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry says quietly, smile small.

“Though I guess I should have tried a bit harder, too. To talk to you, I mean.”

“It’s fine,” Harry shrugs. “People generally don’t want to talk to me first. Like, there’ll always be someone they wanted to speak to who wasn’t available so then they come to me. A consolation prize, I guess.” He shrugs again, like it’s no big deal.

And that can’t be right.

Louis can’t help it. He scoffs. “Come on. That can’t be true, Harry,” he frowns disbelievingly, lifting his upper body up by resting his forearms and elbows against the dewy grass. The temperature is starting to drop.

“It is with everyone else,” Harry says, unbothered, so matter-of-fact, like he accepts it for what it is and doesn’t question it.

 _Everyone else_.

People from school, Louis assumes. Everyone who isn’t a witch, who’s simply human.

Like Louis.

“I guess they can tell there’s something off about me. I dunno." Harry's expression is thoughtful, vaguely perturbed, cheek twitching. "But then—it’s not like I actively try and make an effort with people. I don’t go looking to be social. I’ve always been fine with my own company. Playing with spells, hunting for ingredients, reading my Grimoire, discovering things by myself.” He pauses, picking a daisy and rubbing it between his fingers. “So. It’s my own fault, really. But, I don't mind."

Louis thinks Harry's tone says he does mind. Even if it's only a little.

“But, what about those kids you hang out with at the café? And like, literally everywhere else. I’ve seen you with them all the time.”

“Yeah,” Harry nods, face patient, “I have Liam and Chloe, and Jonny sometimes. But they’re witches, too. Our families are entwined by their covens. We kind of gravitated towards each other because we’re the same. We wanted that safety net, to be able to discuss spells and magic, things we’d heard, get help from each other. And they’re all great. I love them a lot. It’s just—I want to gravitate towards someone solely for them, because of who they are without the witch side of things, you know? Just because they want to be friends with me for me, my personality, who _I_ am. And—who I am—it’s not just that I’m a witch. I _can_ be just Harry. You know? At the same time. I can be both. Human and a witch.”

Louis hums, studying the way the skin between Harry's brows is starting to crease, the press of his lips.

“Come on, then,” Louis says.

“What?”

“Show me.”

Harry’s brows pinch in confusion.

Louis sits up, looking down at the other boy, grinning. “Show me who you are, Harry Styles. Witch," he says, the word folding affectionately on his tongue.

Harry quiets, staring up at him, eyes steadily filling with dawning eagerness. “How?” he says, amused smile blooming across his face.

“Show me some magic," Louis whispers, close to Harry's ear as he bends down. He can feel Harry's hot breath caress his chin, sending shivers through his body, "but something that tells me the kind of person you are, too.”

“This feels like a trick,” Harry chuckles as he sits up slightly, leaning on his arm.

Louis laughs, breathless and light, loose. “No! Just show me your favourite thing to do with magic. Be creative."

Harry quiets another moment, seemingly lost in thought, eyes focused.

It happens quickly.

All Harry does is flick his index finger, a tiny movement, barely anything at all, the rest of his fingers clutching at the deep pocket of his dungarees on his stomach, so effortless, miraculous, astonishing.

The roundabout begins spinning by itself, no one there making it move with their hands or their body. No, it’s all just Harry, flicking his finger, pointing, and it moves. 

Harry releases a slew of quiet, airy giggles at Louis’ reaction—he’s gaping like a fish probably, gaze flitting between the fleshy pad of Harry’s finger and the roundabout in shock.

Like it's no effort at all, Harry spreads out all of his fingers, outstretching his hand, palm flat and facing forwards.

Then, out of thin air, a cluster of almost blindingly blue lights materialise, bowing, dangling, micro blue sparkles to be exact, a bit like fireflies, forming a perfect ring as they hover in front of them, in front of Louis’ face until they almost touch his nose.

And they’re beautiful and glowing and shimmering like blue stardust, and Louis can't tear his eyes away. 

They glow, brighter, brighter, until they’re falling, spiralling manically, forming shapes. There’s a crescent moon which transforms into a hill, into a train, a cloud, a boat sailing over the water.

It floats, dissolving into a feather which then forms into a horse, running, running, running.

Harry’s eyes are blown, an intense ring of gold around his dark pupils, flashing purple like they did before. A smile paints his mouth, his chin slightly smushed into the top of his chest as he does his thing. Creates... magic.

Louis darts his gaze for a split-second, over to the teenagers, suddenly terrified they’ve seen what’s happening.

“They can’t see us,” Harry says calmly.

Louis accepts it, focuses back on Harry’s blue stars, trailing dust like glitter.

The horse turns into a van—a campervan.

Louis turns to look at him. Harry looks back, a mildly coy look, somewhat mixed with mischief, curiosity, intent.

Louis’ heart swells, his stomach swoops, his head light and fluffy.

And then the objects—they’re all shooting towards the roundabout, erratic and rotating with it, round and round, faster and faster, and then they’re spiralling into the air, and—

They’re gone. With nothing more than a puff of dust, barely visible remnants left behind like slowing, disintegrating snowflakes.

Louis turns to Harry, who’s already looking at him, eyes so vividly green, like the green glass of a lager bottle, Louis thinks vaguely. Harry’s eyes are wild, bright and bursting with life and wonders and _magic._ They’re otherworldly, feral in a way that’s both alluring and slightly unpredictable, his pure joyous laughter saturating the night around them, enchanting the earth and the skies and air with his existence.

It’s as though the magic is seeping, leaking, pouring off him in waves for the very first time since they met, wrapped around his whole being, digging into his cells, his DNA, and it’s in this moment that Louis truly realises how impossible Harry is, how astonishing and real and extraordinary—

How much this boy truly is—a witch.

And how much he wants to stay with him.

Louis bites his bottom lip, glancing up at the stars in the clear indigo sky. He looks to his left, holding in a giggle as he feels Harry's thrilled gaze fall upon him, Louis' eyes pausing heavily on the small lilac flower that's suddenly bloomed beside him.

His face falls.


	7. vii.

 

Louis sits up, watches as Harry snickers and breaks into fervent, sporadic laughter, pale cheeks flushed with red splotches, hair messy and frizzing at the ends of his curls as he absently shoves it out of his face. He darts around the grass in front of Louis and begins pirouetting randomly, riding the high of doing magic apparently.

Meanwhile, Louis’ chest constricts with cascading warmth and pride and _worry_.

Barely able to stop from grimacing, he tries his best to slather on a beaming smile to hide his discomfort, aggressively pretends like he doesn’t see the lilac rose that’s just blossomed, horrifyingly resembling the ones from his dreams that are always splashed with blood, plaguing his thoughts, stirring more nightmares and prompting the ever-growing dread that they aren’t dreams at all—that they’re real images. That they’re visions. That what he’s seeing _will_ happen—if they haven’t already.

How can something that looks like an ordinary rose, its petals plush and silky and a pretty shade in the darkening summer evening light, represent something so sinister? Something that wants to haunt him, follow him wherever he goes.

These kinds of roses don’t just sprout up out of nowhere—especially not in this park, not one that’s home to simply a pair of old swings, a creaky, well-used roundabout and a vast stretch of grass that teenagers like to hang out on, get pissed and snog each other senseless on the outskirts of the woods. A park Louis has been to many, many times. Flowers like this aren’t planted randomly by the foot of a rusty swing with the paint chipped off the poles. They belong in lush, colourful, immaculately kept gardens.

And Harry doesn’t seem to have made it appear. He doesn’t seem to notice it at all.

“So? How did I do?” Harry asks, his voice is bright and gasping and buoyant, shaking Louis immediately out of his confusion.

Because Harry.

He’s practically glowing, eyes luminescent and striking, knocking Louis breathless. His chest is heaving slightly from the act of conjuring magic, his hands trembling a little from the apparent effort it did take, or perhaps from nerves, or the pure adrenaline he’s feeling post-magic, and he’s grinning so widely at Louis, so disarming, further disassembling Louis’ foggy brain.

“Were you impressed?” Harry asks, practically bouncing on his feet. “Did I knock your socks off, or do I have to try harder?” His tone is proud.

“Hmm?” is Louis’ dazed response, still desperately holding onto his smile and keeping his gaze away from the flower of his literal nightmares.

Spreading his arms, wide. “That!” Harry laughs unabashedly.

Louis can practically feel the energy reverberating off of Harry, bouncing against Louis and reflecting back at him. All from doing magic for someone else's benefit, someone non-magical, presumably for the first time.

He lies back on his elbows, sniffs once. “You’ll have to try harder,” he says, shrugging, before breaking into a smile.

Harry’s features dance with bright and wild amusement. “Is that right?”

“Yeah, that’s right. I’m not that impressed. I’m sure I’ve seen better on TV.”

Harry’s mouth gapes open, laughing with horror. “Well, then! I’m more than willing to demonstrate something else?” he _sings_ the last part, high-pitched and syrupy sweet, as though a dam has shattered and the water that’s rushing out of the cracks is Harry’s self-confidence from showing who he is in front of Louis.

With limbs that are restless and feet practically bouncing on the spot, Harry moves closer to him, so that their feet are almost touching.

His eyes roam eagerly over Louis’ face. He’s lit in shadows, his pale skin tinged sapphire, bathed in approaching night and Louis’ heart is absolutely hammering behind his ribs.

Harry seems especially pleased with himself, overjoyed and giggly, and it renders Louis speechless, and he smiles wide, eyes crinkled, as he watches Harry let go of his inhibitions.

“No,” Louis grins, “honestly, it was beyond amazin—"

Suddenly, he jolts, feeling like he’s been thrown forward, feels the heat of _fire_ graze his skin.

Woods cracks in his ears. Rope _snaps._

He hears a woman release a blood-curdling scream and another woman runs towards her, wearing a thick cloak, frantic as the crowd loses itself in heckling and cheering and shoving until the woman gets to the stands.

She raises her hands.

Both women vanish.

Louis comes to, swallowing over his gasp, and hastily jumps up off the grass, disorientated and struggling to catch his breath. He gulps hard, exhaling sharply as he clenches his fists together tightly, blunt fingernails digging into his palms.

He barely feels it. He stares down at his knuckles, expecting to find them drenched in blood.

They’re not. Thank god.

His heart stills.

“Louis?” Harry’s asks, panicked, and Louis snaps his head up. Harry frowns, reaching out a tentative hand. “Where did you go?” His hand gingerly thumbs at his chin. Louis shivers, eyes fluttering at his touch, sending white hot sparks under his skin. Harry flinches slightly and Louis wonders if he felt that too, and then Harry’s hand settles atop the side of his face, soft, gentle.

“Hey, look at me.”

His gaze is questioning, holding such concern

Louis snuffles, wiping away the startling evidence of wetness on his face. Where the hell did that come from? Was he crying? He feels beat down this time, traumatised. The weight of loss and love that he can’t place sitting at the bottom of his chest, merging into his organs.

“Louis? Say something? Do you feel okay?”

“I feel fine,” Louis dismisses, then chuckles harshly, sniffing once more. “Honestly, I’m fine.” He scoffs, shakes his head. “I feel like that’s a question you have to constantly ask me now. Must be getting annoying for you.”

“No, of course not.”

Harry watches him intently.

It’s a little unnerving how closely he looks at Louis sometimes, and he wants to squirm under his attention. He also doesn’t want to look away. He doesn’t want _Harry_ to look away.

“You had another vision.”

Scoffing humourlessly, Louis agrees. “Yep. Another one of those old chestnuts.”

A heavy beat.

Harry sighs deeply, hopelessly, looking up at the darkening sky. “I wish I could help you. I feel like this is my fault,” he says very quietly, muttered to the night.

“Why would you think it’s your fault?” Louis asks, genuinely confused.

A heavier beat.

Slowly, Harry shrugs a single shoulder, staring at Louis with glassy green eyes.

Louis’ chest tightens as he thinks of a time when he could see nothing but blood and mud and green eyes, and the tightness begins to bleed into a vague, distant although still somewhat familiar sense of fear, buried deep in his chest, aching in his bones, pressing down heavily on his lungs.

“Sometimes my dreams—they feel so real,” Louis says, scraping the sole of his trainer across the grass.

“Yeah,” Harry whispers. “Mine, too.”

Louis quiets, observes Harry’s sympathetic expression and his worried eyes before digging his hands into his eye sockets, exhaling heavily, torso expanding with building anxiety yet again.

“I have these moments,” he hears Harry start.

Louis lowers his hands.

“When it feels like my magic is too much? That it could just suddenly burst out of me when I’m feeling really angry or sad, or happy, even. It feels like it buzzes through my veins, in my blood, depending on how much I use, or what spell I cast.” He pauses. “Sometimes it’s scary.” He watches Louis, brows furrowed with apprehension, eyes imploring. “It’s like I can’t control it. Like it’s too much.”

“Sounds terrifying.” Louis gives Harry a long, weighty look, trying to convey his unease.

_Harry tends to act with his heart first, his emotions. He feels things so intensely. He needs to learn to control them._

Anne said that to Louis this morning. He wonders how far Harry’s magic could actually go if she was that worried about Harry’s whereabouts, about her son being on his own. Just how powerful is Harry when he’s experiencing something overwhelming?

The thought sits uncomfortably inside him.

“Are they tied to your magic? Your feelings?” he asks, feeling that weight press harder in the pit of his stomach, mixed with heightening curiosity.

Harry presses his lips together. “I think so—yeah.”

Louis frowns. That’s surely going to get complicated. It must take an awful lot of self-control to tamper down on what he’s naturally feeling in case his magic… lets loose? This feels very Jean Grey from X-Men right now. Of course, he doesn’t tell Harry that. He thinks he’s made him feel enough of an unusual situation and that’s the last thing he wants to bring up again.

“Is that… dangerous, though?” he can’t help but ask.

Brows pinched, Harry exhales. “I mean, I don’t think so? I’m not—I’m not that powerful. My magic… I can do the basics at best. Like, alright. Just now? Still now, even, I felt—amazing. Like the magic was just surging through my body even after I stopped doing it. With things like that, it’s like experiencing a prolonged, natural high. It takes ages to wear off when it gets this strong.” His eyes are glazed, but so, so bright, limbs unable to stay still. “So… I suppose that’s when it gets tricky. Like. When feeling other things.” He thumbs his lip, frowning, thinking.

“That can’t bode well when you’re angry, then?” Louis says carefully. “What happens then?”

Harry averts his gaze on a swallow, fixing on a point over Louis’ shoulder. He shrugs half-heartedly. “I honestly don’t know. Nothing that made me feel that mad yet. As in, I lose control of my magic. I’ve felt hopeless. Devastated. And I get angry, 'course I do. Like everyone else does." He smirks. "I'm a teenager. There's the added shit that comes along with that. Hormones. Friends. Parents,” he mutters with a wry smile. “But. I don’t know how my magic would react when feeling an intense kind of anger.”

“Not great, I’m guessing.”

Harry’s brows crease with unease but then it's gone.

“I guess I’ll just hope I never find out,” he says lightly, smiling, except this time it isn’t genuine. He’s attempting to smooth over the cracks. It worries Louis. He can’t say it doesn’t. He might not have known him long at all, but this? Makes him feel oddly uneasy. Or is it odd? Would anyone feel this kind of dread already? As though it’s come up before?

Then again, it’s not your usual situation.

“Your mum worries,” is what Louis chooses to say.

There’s a long beat.

“I know she does.” Harry is now far more subdued, expression blank, eyes contemplative.

After a few moments, Harry’s feet shuffle in the grass. He clears his throat, coughs a bit.

“I was thinking earlier,” he says, nervously sinking his teeth into his bottom lip, “that I should go home tonight. You’re right. I have worried my mum enough and I’m going to tell her the truth about the curse being active again. I’m going to tell mum about Brooke too—that she’s so close to finding a way to break the curse and that she just needs to find the last ingredients to cast the spell with me. And then it should be fine. Right? Mum’ll be mad, but she should finally agree to tell me exactly what the curse even is now, right? Because it’ll be sorted soon, so there’s no reason why she can’t tell me. Because it’ll be gone. Done with. It won’t be a threat to me anymore, if that’s what’s scaring her so much.”

Hm. Magic probably isn’t as straightforward as Harry is making it out to be now.

“Well, yeah. If you’re that optimistic, sure,” Louis answers, his temples starting to hurt. He rubs at them in circular motions, frowning.

“I am,” Harry says automatically, his own brows slightly pinched. He’s sweaty, clothes slightly unkempt and creased, the buzzed joy in his eyes fading, now marred with the day’s exhaustion. “It’ll be fine. I believe that.” He nods mechanically to himself, to Louis, maybe to the universe too.

“You know what’s best. Who am I to put a damper on the flame of hope?” Louis shoots back, smiles tightly, slight and close-mouthed. “But I’m sure your mum will appreciate your honesty. So I think there’s a good chance she’ll return it.”

An air of awkwardness seems to settle between them and no, Louis has to make it disappear.

“Race you to the van,” he rushes out, already starting to run, willing his head to just calm the fuck down.

“Hey!” he hears Harry’s disgruntled voice call out, laughing.

Louis’ just about to reach the car when Harry suddenly appears in front of him, grinning with his arms folded.

“How did you—”

“I’m a witch,” Harry says, pointing to himself. He beams. “Duh.”

Louis rolls his eyes with fond exasperation. “Show off.” He dares to ruffle Harry’s hair and Harry preens.

Dazedly, Louis gazes at him with the certainty that his heart has grown five times bigger since the early hours of this bizarre, exhilarating, overwhelming clutter of a day.

 

***

 

It’s late when they get back to Harry’s, Louis pulling into his driveway as quietly as one can drive a campervan with an exhaust pipe that makes weird pumping sounds now and then and has an overly loud engine he just wants to strangle with his bare hands.

Louis might be feeling a little delirious. (Especially when Harry accidentally knocks against his hand against his elbow. “Sorry,” Harry’d smiled bashfully, tittering under his breath, which makes Louis think maybe it wasn’t so accidental.)

He tampers down a smile as he shuts off the engine and looks at the front windows next door.

The lights are off. Maybe Harry’s mum isn’t home, then. Another thought comes to him, one he’s been itching to ask since he doesn’t as often see him around as much as Harry’s mum always is. “Is your dad around?”

“Sometimes,” is what Harry settles on, tone wry, after a long stretch of quiet. Which is ambiguous to say the least. “To argue with Mum.”

“What about?” Louis instantly winces. “Sorry. I’m being too nosy. Tell me to get lost.”

Harry huffs good-naturedly, smile glowing even in the dark. “It’s mostly about me and about what I’m supposed to be doing now that I’m eighteen,” Harry answers after a few beats. “Which wasn’t me planning on going to university next month.”

“What does he want you to do instead?”

“He wants me to go a boarding school for witches,” Harry says flatly.

Louis furrows his brows, eyes widening because—

He bursts into brief surprised laughter and then quickly shuts his mouth. “Jesus, Harry, I know you said your life isn’t like a book, but _mate_ , it sounds a bit like a flippin’ fantasy to me. A boarding school that teaches magic?”

“ _Harry Potter_ again, is it?” Harry smirks. “Where else do you think hordes of young witches are taught, Louis?”

“Uhhh. Good point, that!” Louis says, enthusiasm dripping from his voice. Surreal. It’s all bloody surreal. Louis loves it. “Guess it’s not as appealing as it sounds though. Hopefully not as dangerous either.”

Harry lifts his brows sardonically. “I dunno. Guess we’ll see if anyone’s murdered within the first few days of term.”

They snigger in the darkness until it gradually goes quiet once more.

“But really. Is that where you’re going soon?” Louis wonders, suddenly fearing that Harry’s already about to leave when they’ve only just properly met.

Harry meets Louis’ eyes with a half-smile. “Why? Would you miss me then?” And it’s said so genuinely, so honestly curious and hopeful that Louis might actually miss his presence that again, something leaps in his chest, a heated giddiness spreading through his body and to his face, causing Louis to grin beyond his control.

“Yeah. I would,” Louis says without hesitation. “Look, Curls. It may have only been a day, but I’ve already grown rather attached to you, so.”

Harry smiles wider, then turns to stare ahead at the darkened front windows of his house.

“He won’t be here tonight.”

Louis nods.

“So, are you going to teleport your way in, or will you use the door like us mere, weak mortals?” he asks instead, saying it to the dark, a soft smile dancing over his mouth, the streetlights glowing like yellow moons behind them, casting their faces in wispy shadows.

He doesn’t want to leave just yet. Wants to be sitting in the dark with Harry just a bit longer. It feels like time doesn’t exist here, like they’re suspended in the air and that anything that happens in this van while the moon is out is only for them, nothing else can touch them here. Which. Louis’ not sure why he thought that, but it’s there and it feels exciting, a shot of adrenaline pumping through his veins at just being so close to Harry.

He should want to go to sleep. That’s what he should do. Re-charge. Properly this time, and not get up until at least noon.

But all he can focus on is the boy sitting on his left.

And if Louis’ smiling softly, Harry’s smiling even softer, the sound of his wholesome, mischief-laced chuckling burying its way under Louis’ skin. “I thought you might want to come inside, actually?”

And uh. Okay. That’s a surprise.

“Come—inside?”

God. Get your mind out of the gutter, Tomlinson.

Harry nods calmly, humming his affirmation with slow, droopy blinks. Louis’ a bit mesmerised. “Yeah. I mean, like. If you want to?” he says with languid, hopeful blinks.

“To—to your room.”

Harry nods, his face smooth.

Louis stares.

“Your—um—bedroom, you mean?” Louis says, unable to speak coherently apparently, almost choking on his own salvia.

Harry bursts out laughing, all teeth and crinkles and hands. “Yes, my room. That _is_ what I said. Unless you’d prefer a tour of the kitchen.” A pause. Louis stares, dazed. Like an idiot.

“Do you not want to?” Harry asks, smile faltering considerably.

“No, no! I mean, yes! I do. Yeah, of course I do! That’d be—uh, cool. Yeah. Splendid.”

Dear fuck. He didn’t need to be that eager. He’s so embarrassing. Briefly, Louis squeezes his eyes shut, resisting the urge to groan out loud.

Harry, though, simply beams at him, unperturbed. “Okay, then. Um. Cool,” he says, quietly satisfied, hands clasped neatly in his lap, a bit coy, a bit quieter.

Louis feels a bit sloshed.

“Shall we go in, then?” Harry picks his rucksack off the floor between his knees and hauls it to his chest, waiting patiently.

“What about your mum, though? Isn’t she home? Won’t she have something to say about you bringing the boy from next door over? The same one who said we weren’t friends and who claimed hadn’t seen you earlier today?”

Harry’s already shaking his head. “She’s not home. It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” Louis says, narrowing his eyes at the front window’s netted curtains.

“I’m sure. It’s, what, nearly midnight? On a Friday. She’ll be at Liam’s house. Her and his mum have a Ladies Night. I don’t think she would have stayed home. She’s probably already cast a location spell and knows where I’ve been all day, anyway.”

“Is “Ladies Night” code for casting revenge spells on especially dick-ish men over a cauldron?” Louis smiles, releasing a short burst of air.

“Um. No? That is such a stereotype, Louis.”

“Oh.” Louis deflates. Fuck. “No, I meant—it was just a stupid joke, sorry, Harry, I—" he scrambles, cut off by Harry’s spluttered giggles, stifled by his palm.

“I’m joking,” Harry breathes, eyes lit up. Louis playfully gives his arm a whack and Harry grins so hard it looks like his cheeks must be hurting. “Though, they will be making their way through several bottles of red wine over tarot card readings. But that’s it.”

“Good to know.”

Harry smiles. Nods.

Louis nods back. “After you.”

“No, please, after you.” Harry gestures a bow.

“Shut up, you idiot,” Louis mutters softly, exiting the van, the soft thump on the other side indicating Harry’s followed. Louis bites back a grin.

 

***

 

It seems to be an empty house when Harry peers inside, Louis following closely behind him with quiet steps. Harry flicks his wrist and the lights come on, washing the hallway with a warm glow as Harry’s fingers curl inwards towards his palm, decreasing the brightness, their shadows lining the burnt orange wallpaper on which several photo frames adorn the walls.

A blonde toddler with huge bluish eyes beams at the camera: Harry, increasing in age until his hair has turned brown and his eyes green, a few more of a girl who looks much like Harry in features, long brown hair and freckles, holding Harry in her small, pale arms (his mysterious sister?) and then finally, Louis' gaze lands on a Harry that's more similar to the one he's looking at now, a couple of years younger perhaps, with round cheeks and tight brown curls. A cheesy grin still matching his tiny self.

"Yeah, that's me," Harry whispers, a slightly mortified smile on his face as he turns back toward the stairs, hiding his face from Louis' view. He can still hear the smile in Harry’s slightly hoarse voice, can hear the signs of tiredness in that throaty rasp on the end of his sentence and it sends a shiver through him, a dizzy rush prompting goosebumps.

"You look adorable," Louis replies, enthralled.

"Hush," Harry says, tapping him lightly on the arm. Louis suppresses a shiver and then feels like throwing himself down the two steps he's climbed. He's being absurd. He's nothing been this keen on any boy ever. "Come on."

It's doing a number on his insides.

(He can clearly imagine himself passing out if they get to a kiss.)

“You sure your mum isn’t in?” Louis finds himself whispering, the moment feeling precious as his hands hover by their own accord, low at Harry’s waist. His fingers accidentally (it was) bump Harry’s side and he feels Harry jolt, momentarily stilling before he continues walking.

“Why're you whispering?”

Louis shrugs, smiles giddily to himself. “I dunno,” he whispers again, feeling a flutter when Harry giggles under his breath. “Felt appropriate.”

They take the stairs until they arrive at Harry’s bedroom. He opens his door cautiously, quietly, as though he’s about to peep through a gap to check there’s nothing untoward going on his bedroom. Which... Well. Louis hopes there’s no blood-sucking demons hiding out in Harry’s bed. He’s accepted the whole magic is real thing but he’s not quite ready to be faced with the possibility that Buffy really does have to slay vampires.

Louis watches Harry closely as he walks inside, blindly catching Louis’ wrist and tugging Louis in after him.

The floorboards creak under their feet, and Louis carefully steps around the clothes that are scattered across the laminate flooring of Harry’s bedroom. The walls are painted a light blue and dust particles float around the lamp light that Harry switches on, situated next to the maroon curtains that he closes, the view from Louis’ dark kitchen directly below.

“Do you see us a lot?”

“Hmm,” Harry hums absently, dumping his rucksack on his chair, a few t-shirts hung over the back of it, and starts sifting through it, brow lightly furrowed.

“From here. Our kitchen is in direct view of your bedroom,” Louis smirks.

Harry shrugs. “Sometimes,” he says nonchalantly. His blushing says the opposite. Louis hides another smile against his shoulder as Harry clears a space on his desk—which is mostly neat already—and places the remaining contents of his bag on top slowly: a few corked vials and bottles with powders and liquids of murky colours, sets his Grimoire in the middle and a couple of pens and a crumpled notepad next to it.

Louis climbs onto Harry’s bed and watches as Harry blows out the almost burned to the bottom candle.

“Mum must have lit it. She likes the place to smell like whichever scent is her favourite of the moment.”

“I guess it’s lemon right now,” Louis says, the smoke floating like velvety wisps of cotton as he positions himself cross-legged near the edge of Harry’s queen-size bed (he envies it since he’s still putting up with a poxy single), watching Harry’s pinched brow crease and then smooth out as he regards his room thoughtfully, lips forming a pout as he debates if everything is back where it should be which makes a small smile flicker over Louis’ face.

Harry catches him looking, slightly disgruntled expression transforming into a soft smile.

“Alright?

“Yeah. Great. How about you?” Louis smiles stupidly, feeling his cheeks warm.

“I’m good, thank you for asking,” Harry replies, an equally stupid smile stretching across his features. That might be what Louis loves most. When Harry really, truly smiles, he smiles with his entire face, expressing his utter joy in that moment with abandon.

They bow their heads, breathless chuckles perfuming the air between them, Louis’ stomach swooping so strongly he feels giddy as Harry perches himself on the edge of the bed next to Louis, leaving not much of a gap where they each sit.

Which is absolutely fine by Louis.

He inspects Harry’s face closely, probably breathing too hard and too loud, butterflies going bat-shit in his belly. Harry’s lips are pressed together, staring at a spot on the floor like it’s the most riveting thing he’s ever seen. He seems nervous, jittery. His bent legs are even trembling a little.

“So… that was a long day, eh? I feel a bit dazed, to be honest after all that.”

Chuckling, Louis scoots closer, knocking their shoulders together. “You feel dazed? I just discovered witches are real today! That magic exists! I’m not sure where my head is at, really. I think it’s halfway to the moon by now.”

“To the moon,” Harry repeats, eyes bright and buoyant.

“The moon.”

“It’s a powerful force to be reckoned with. We need the moon or else we’d just… go extinct.”

“She’s got our lives in her hands,” Louis agrees solemnly.

“Puts everything in perspective when you think of it like that. We’re living on a gigantic orb just hovering in space amongst the stars. Some things really don’t matter in the grand scheme of things, you know? Some things are just… pointless.” Harry’s gaze wanders off. Louis tries to catch up with it.

He squints, bumps his shoulder softly with Harry’s, who smiles a little, looking away with blushing cheeks.

“Well. _You_ can do _magic_. One thing that definitely can’t be pointless. It’s something of a miracle. And that display you put on? I thought was amazing, by the way. Truly incredible, Harry. Did I mention that?” His tone is soft, on the edge of teasing.

“Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed the spectacle.”

“Love a good spectacle, me. The more dramatic, the better, I say.”

“Right,” Harry laughs with what are mostly short little puffs of air, his smile crooked and dimples deep. He’s blushing too, brushing away a curl across his forehead. Then he quiets, soft giggles subsiding as his face stills, untroubled smile sliding off his features slowly, paving the way for a more loaded look, attentive, lingering, Harry’s eyes roaming intensely over his face.

The air between them feels thick, heady and Louis’ heart starts to pound, his breathing growing heavier. He swallows, finds himself leaning in, and Harry does the same, cautiously but steadily moving closer to Louis, tilting his head just so and parting his—

A door cruelly puts a stop to whatever was about to happen, slamming shut.

Louis jolts, hand pausing mid-air from where he was about to lightly rest his hand on Harry’s thigh, (which he’s pretty sure Harry would have enjoyed) and refrains from letting a groan slip past his lips. (He’d curse whoever’s denied him a surely earth-shattering first kiss with Harry, and thinks, hm, maybe not, considering curses are still a touchy subject as of right now.)

“What was that, do you think? A gust of wind in this humidity? A ghost of a baby frog who’s out for revenge since I accidently trod on it, aged nine? Or your probably furious mother?”

“The latter, unfortunately.” Harry’s mouth curves, sitting back on his elbows, shoulders slumped.

Louis aches to touch him, wants to feel the warmth of his body under his hands, all over. He finds himself hovering forwards, half looming over Harry, pliant and loose, like a jelly tower.

Harry meets his eyes. His pupils are dark, largely drowning out the green, his desire for Louis evident and Louis smiles deviously, immensely pleased as he watches Harry’s eyes glaze over, throat bobbing on a thick swallow, teeth dragging over his temptingly reddened lip as he stares at Louis’ mouth.

“Harry?” he whispers, leaning in again, despite the fact they should probably check out who’s downstairs.

However, Louis feels like doing such thing, light-headed and a tight coil of want curling in his lower belly.

Throwing all caution to the wind, he sneaks his hand gingerly around Harry’s side, resting on the soft part of his hip. Harry breath catches, and Louis’ pulse is raging, sprinting down a runway with all its might.

Hot breath fans over Louis’ face and he lets himself fall an inch closer down to Harry’s when he abruptly stops, smirking, though his breathlessness gives away any pretence he was going to attempt of being less affected than the boy under him, wide, desperate eyes staring up at him.

“Your mum _is_ home, isn’t she?” Louis breathes, clearing his throat to get rid of its affected hoarseness. 

Harry sighs heavily, heaving himself upright with what seems like a huge amount of effort, an enormous pout on his lips as he frowns hard at his door. “Um. Rain check?" he half-smiles, wringing his hands together. "Or, like, you can wait here still? And I’ll be right back?”

"No, no. I'll come too. If that's okay? Unless you want me to hide under the bed?" 

The least Louis can do is be Harry's back up. He did drive Harry off and lie to his mother's face about it, so.

They lock eyes again, and Louis' throat feels dry, suddenly parched. For actual hydration, or perhaps just because he's feeling the effects of wanting his mouth on Harry's so badly. It's a situation.

It still feels like there’s an invisible current running between them, sparking electricity, burning hot and in no hurry to dissipate but instead growing. (God, how hard is it to get a snog around here?)

Helplessly, Louis’ gaze trickles back up to Harry’s mouth and he feels itchy, desperate to get his mouth on that mouth, touch it, thumb his bottom lip until Harry goes pliant in his arms and—

Jesus. Louis is… frustrated. A specific kind of frustrated. So there’s no way he’s sitting in this room unsupervised on Harry’s bed without him. Yeah, no way.

“No, you're fine. Time to face the music, then. Come on, soldier,” Harry smiles, small and shy and a little on the flirtatious side. He knocks Louis’ hip as they exit his room. Maybe a bit more than a little.

Louis hides his grin in his shoulder.

When they get downstairs, the aroma of Harry’s home smells like a mixture of sweet herbs and the residue of smoke, the remnants of hairspray. And perfume. Heavy, expensive, overpowering. He lightly grasps onto the sleeve of Harry’s t-shirt, stomach leaping when Harry’s thumb blindly caresses Louis’ hand behind him, leaving sparks in their wake. (At this rate, if Harry actually held his hand, Louis’ sure he’d pass out.)

Harry opens the living room door, immediately jerking in Louis’ grip.

“Jesus, mum!” Harry shouts, back against the wall, one hand clutching at his chest.

Anne is sitting on the sofa, in the dark, face the very picture of _unamused._

“What are you doing sitting in the dark?” Harry asks, arm reaching out as if to shield Louis.

She clasps her hands in her lap, atop her long dark skirt. But even from where he's standing Louis can see how tight her grip is. He bites his lip, wondering whether this was a mistake. He should probably leave. He really should. This isn't any of his business. He takes a subtle step back and suddenly Harry's fingers are grabbing at his wrist in a loose but solid hold.

“Did you really think I’d gone out after you’ve been missing all _day_?” she says, dark eyebrows pinched. Her lips are red, and Louis notes she smells distinctly of hairspray and a musky floral perfume. 

“It’s not like I haven’t been out all day before,” Harry offers meekly, focusing on where his hand is connected to Louis.

Louis' heart is racing at the touch. Anne's gaze follows where Harry is looking. She pauses, stilling for a moment. Her face blanks. Louis feels a bit sick. Like he's been caught. 

Anne sighs, shifting her hands toward her stomach, where her flimsy blouse is tucked into her skirt.

“You took some of your clothes. Your bag was gone. How was I meant to know you were coming back? After what we— You could have been running away again for all I knew." A heavy pause. "I've already had one child disappear, I am not prepared to lose another," Anne's tone almost verging on aloof, though her eyes gathering moisture. Louis' brows fly up, snapping his gaze to Harry.

_'I've already had one child disappear'._

Harry's sister?

“Mum, I was coming back," Harry insists quietly. "But I’m sorry if I made you worry, I really, really am—”

“Of course I _worry_. I’m your mother!” Anne very nearly shouts, taking a deep breath and tipping her head back. She stares at the ceiling for a few moments, while Harry and Louis stand in silence, clinging onto each other as though they're facing something entirely more terrifying than Harry's mum.

Harry stays silent, back rigid, and Louis stays still behind him, crouching slightly so that he’s mostly covered from Anne’s view, his fingers grazing the small of Harry’s back.

"I had a reason. I wasn't trying to hurt you." Harry's eyes are filled with remorse, head slightly bowed.

"This isn't a game, Harry." Anne sighs. 

“I know you went looking for Brooke,” Anne says it like it’s a fact. She doesn’t sound too mad about it, though.

“Did you try a location spell?” Harry mumbles, head fully bowed now, looking down at his feet.

“I did. Though it didn’t work. There seems to be a block on you.” Anne’s face softens. She swallows, sighing as she shifts in her position on the sofa, legs draped in her skirt, angling herself to the side, facing them.

“The one I tried for Brooke didn’t work either,” Harry reveals reluctantly.

“Yes. I supposed that was the case. You went to the manor, didn’t you?”

Harry nods.

“With Louis,” she says, as though she's just realised he's in the room, that he's been standing so close to Harry, they may as well have merged into one body.

Shit.

"Um. Maybe I should go," Louis offers, attempting to wriggle out of Harry's hand, but Harry only seems to hold on a bit tighter, giving the pads of his fingers a squeeze. "This is between the two of you."

“You lied to me when I asked you where my son was. I knew it this morning,” Anne addresses Louis, her eyes boring into him. “You can’t pull the wool over my eyes that easily, I’m afraid.”

They’re not cold exactly—her eyes—but she’s certainly suspicious of him, her voice is scarily indifferent toward Louis. Which is weird. He’s had pleasant conversations with her before. Why is she suddenly so wary of him now?

Louis gulps, feeling uncomfortably small under the sheer intensity of her gaze. Her eyes aren’t changing colour like Harry’s do sometimes, but they’re still pretty intimidating. His nose inadvertently brushes Harry’s shoulder blades and he feels the other boy shiver against him, sending a pleased thrill through Louis, his heart pounding. He does it again, this time as a gesture of comfort, reminding Harry he’s right behind him, both literally and figuratively.

His eyes slide back to Anne, who finally breaks her gaze, mercilessly ceasing her frankly unnerving staring, giving Louis a break, he hopes, and softens again somewhat. She seems quite tired around the eyes now that’s really looking at her. A stab of sympathy hits Louis in the chest. And god. It’s giving Louis whiplash. She’s sharp as a razor one second and in the next, she looks as if she’s about to hug you senseless.

Her shoulders slump. She looks between them both closely, curious.

“How long have you two been friends?” is not what Louis was expecting her to say next.

And it’s said with such resignation, too, which. Okay. Odd. But that’s not what almost startles Louis. There’s nervousness in her voice. What sounds like… fear? But that doesn’t make sense. Why would she be afraid that Harry’s made a new friend? She clutches at the pendants around her neck tightly, like they’re a comfort to her. Perhaps they are.

“Have you been seeing each other a while now? Is that why you’ve been so cagey when I’ve asked? Do you know each other well?” Anne pelts questions at them and Louis is so confused. What is even happening right now? What’s he got in the middle of?

Frowning, Louis takes a step forward beside Harry so that they’re standing shoulder to shoulder. He glances at Harry’s face. His expression is stormy.

“Mum,” he grits out, exasperated, annoyed. “Please, don’t start. We can trust Louis. Okay? I promise. And if you won’t trust him, if you think you can’t, then just trust me. Mum, please?"

Anne looks tense, as though this is a sore subject. As though they’ve talked about this plenty before. "How long, Harry?"

Jesus, this is awkward. Louis' cheeks are burning, limbs stiff. He avoids her eyes, feeling uneasiness settle in his chest, unable to help wondering why she seems to not want Harry to be friends with Louis. What could he have done? He’s nice to everybody. He doesn’t try to bother anyone unless they’re Niall. He’s quite adamant he’s inherited all of his best traits from his mother, actually—whom Anne seems to like, mind you, as well as Amy, apparently—so what’s she holding against Louis? Why is Louis the one singled out here?

It's like they're being scalded after being caught in bed together or something. Not even Louis' mum has acted like this. This is so uncomfortable. Harry is eighteen. Even if something was going on (which considering they almost kissed five minutes ago, it might have) Anne can't stop them? Not really.

But then maybe it's not so personal, though? Perhaps Anne is simply wary of Louis’ knowledge of them? Of witches, of _magic_. And it's understandable. Warranted, even. For her to be suspicious of Louis' motives. People can be cruel, manipulative. Maybe she’s angry that Harry told has someone and has endangered their lives for all she knows. She thinks Louis is going to let slip their secret.

The thought makes him feel highly defensive, offended, even.

Sure, Anne is friendly with Louis’ mum, but maybe that isn’t enough. She obviously doesn’t trust Louis, not by the way she’s kind of glaring at him, dissecting him with her otherworldly eyes, trying to tread and scramble through his brain to figure out if he’s going to tell anyone what he knows, like a snitch, a homewrecker.

Well. She obviously has no idea who Louis is, does she? And it’s his job to right that, especially if he wants to spend more time with Harry.

“I won’t tell anyone about you,” Louis says, “I wouldn’t, if that’s what you’re worried about, Mrs Styles. I wouldn’t do that to anyone, least of all Harry. No one deserves to have who they are revealed to the world if they don’t want it to be.”

He turns his honest gaze upon Harry, who returns it, wide-eyed, touched.

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” Harry responds instantly. He looks at his mother. “I told Louis because I trust him. He wouldn’t expose us. He’s not like that.”

Anne's expression bleeds into one of distress, shaking her head. "No. I'm sorry. I just don't think it's a good idea. The two of you being close." She seems desperate, terrified. 

"What is going on?" Harry groans out of frustration, sifting a hand through the front of his hair until it's sticking up wildly. "What?" he says incredulously. "Why are you so weirdly against this? Why can't I have non-magical friends? I just want to talk to someone who's not a witch, for once!"

Okay. Louis' even more confused. God, he wants to leave. But Harry. He can't leave yet. 

"Hey," he whispers, putting an arm around Harry's taut back, resting his hand on his hip, squeezing his soft side. Harry seems to still, calm down at least. His eyes are getting glassy. Louis shoots a look at Anne, who's staring into her lap, fiddling with her pendants almost obsessively. 

“What is it, Mum?” Harry softens, walking over to sit next to her, taking her hand gingerly in his, their palms flat against each other's, loosening his hold, just in case she pulls away. It’s a bold move considering how badly they’ve been getting along recently, Louis thinks. "What are you keeping from me? You don't really believe Louis would expose us, do you? So what is it?"

Anne holds Harry’s gaze with wide, glassy eyes, while Louis watches a respectful distance away as Harry squeezes her son’s hand.

“Everything I’ve kept from you, I only meant to protect you. Don’t you know that? I wasn’t doing it to be spiteful or trying to make you miserable. It’s because I love you, darling. So, so much. And I don't want to lose you.” Her voice cracks and Harry is getting visible upset, eyes filling up, features twisting in anguish. 

“Oh, god. Mum,” he whispers with watery, bloodshot eyes. “Of course I know that.”

“There is something I should have told you, though,” Anne agrees, dabbing at her eyes, resigned. “I realise now I’ve been—misguided in keeping this from you. Because regardless of you knowing, I don’t think it would stop anything. I mean, it can’t. Something like this, when it’s felt, it’s too late.”

Harry shakes his head, confused. “Mum. What are you talking about?”

Anne clutches her pendants yet again, thumb running along the chain, reaching a crescent shaped silver plate.

“Are you really going to tell me the truth?” Harry asks.

“First tell me why you were looking for Brooke,” Anne says. 

Louis sees the frustration seep back into Harry's features.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Answer the question, Harry.”

“Answer mine,” Harry says, a determined set to his jaw.

Anne stares Harry down until he finally relents. “I’ve been taking extra tutoring for my magic.”

“Not with Jacob,” Anne deflates. "Please tell me you didn't." Her eyes are wide. She screws them shut, brows knitted as she presses her clenched fist to her forehead.

“Yes,” Harry grits, regretfully. "And the curse on our bloodline—I still don't know what that is, by the way—it's actively working again because I helped," he admits miserably. 

"I knew the curse was working again. I felt it."

Harry snaps his head to look at her. "When?"

"When it happened. Brooke felt it too."

"So you both knew?" Harry stares.

"We had to do something before it started..." Anne again looks at Louis with terror in her eyes.

(He's trying really hard not to be offended.)

"So. Jacob. He's responsible for this. I thought as much," Anne says bitterly, settling her gaze back on Harry.

“Yeah... I let him manipulate me into helping him resume the curse," Harry explains. "He said it had skipped a few generations, that it needed fixing, that I was doing something worthwhile. He said he was grateful for my help, and he laughed at me, Mum. Like I was some stupid kid for being naive enough to believe him when he told me I just had to read some words and that it was stop it, not re-start it,” he scowls. “And I knew I let you down, so I had to keep it from you and make it right before you found out. And now I know Brooke found out already, which makes sense because she’s got nearly all the ingredients needed to counteract it. She left me a note at the house saying she could stop it. Whatever this curse is, it doesn’t have to be a catastrophe, right? Brooke will fix it before it can get that far?”

“She's going to try. But there’s no guarantee what Brooke thinks she’s doing will work.” A pause. “How did Jacob even get into the restricted section of the library? It only gives passage to those connected to our ancestry.”

“I let him in,” Harry cringes.

Anne throws her head back briefly, like she’s trying to refrain from losing her temper. Her brows are harsh and she opens her mouth only to exhale. “And that’s why you wouldn’t tell me why you were in such a state that night,” she says, a faraway look in her eyes. “You thought I’d be furious at your thoughtless disregard for important and irreplaceable artefacts and sacred texts that have been in our family for centuries,”—she stands up, her eyes wide, incredulous, but her voice is quiet, concerned—“and my sister may be many things," she sighs, "but she’s not careless.”

"I'm sorry," Harry says again, hopelessly.

She cups her son’s cheeks softly, her gaze full of anxiety, a mother’s love. Her lips starkly red against her skin, a wisp of dark hair falling beside her refined, softened brow.

“Aren’t you mad?” 

“Yes.”

Harry bows his head. Anne tips his head back up.

“I'm angry that you could so easily put yourself in danger like this. You know you’re just adding to the pile of reasons why I’m so overbearingly protective of you, don’t you?" She half-smiles ruefully, sighing. "You don’t make this easy for me, do you? Or for yourself. Magic isn’t a toy. You _know_ you’re more perceptive to mood changes, that it affects how your magic manifests when you do it.”

Louis should go. He clears his throat and not subtly. “I really should get going now. Let you two talk it out?” he smiles tightly. He's already stood here like an awkwardly placed lemon, not knowing what to do with himself, feeling like he's intruding on an incredibly personal conversation as he watches them both, ever curious.

“But what’s done is done, isn’t it?” Anne continues, like she didn’t hear him. Louis rolls his eyes, refrains from exhaling exasperatedly. “He’s always tried to wheedle his way into your good graces. Jacob’s always been a snake. I suppose you didn’t listen to Brooke’s stories this time? The one time it did actually benefit you to listen to her? Hm?" She gives him a look.

“They were in the back of my mind, yeah... but I guess I was too desperate to be tutored by someone,” Harry mumbles, picking at his straps, curls falling into his eyes messily. He looks like a scolded toddler. “Since you told everyone not to take me on,” he mumbles. "I just wanted to get better."

“After I specifically told you to stay away from him? That you weren’t ready?” she chides.

“I’m _sorry_.”

Anne hums, softening further, the creases between her brows evening out. She takes her hands from his face and folds her arms.

“It’s late," she says softly. "You should get some sleep. We’ll talk more in the morning." She brushes down her skirt. "I’m going to see Karen. Do not leave the house tonight, understood?” She points a finger into his chest for good measure. "I _will_ know."

“You're going out now?” Harry lifts a brow. 

“Yes. And Louis, you should go home, too.” Anne gives him a surprisingly warm glance.

No one has to ask Louis twice to go right now. Another day, however, and Louis would be very much desperately yearning to stay. 

“Can I see him tomorrow?” Harry asks, a challenge in his voice. Louis wants to tell the boy not to push it for once.

Anne stays silent a few moments as she fusses with her hair. “We’ll see,” she says finally. "Just go to bed, Harry. No more excitement tonight, please? I mean it."

"I'll try," he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. And with that, Anne kisses her son on his forehead, brushes his fringe away as he pouts, and walks into the hallway to collect her bag, leaving the house with a quiet click of the door behind her. 

Louis sighs dramatically. Loud.

"Oh, my god. What has today been? Are you exhausted? Because I, for one, am fucking _exhausted_. I thought she was going to zap you into a frog and keep you in a glass jar or summat, just to keep tabs on you."

Harry instantly breaks into nonsensical giggles. "God, I'm so sorry you were here for all that. I feel drained. I'm gonna sleep for fifteen hours, I think." He grins at Louis, hovering closely.

Rubbing his hands down his face, Louis nods. "Yeah. Well, once you've slept enough for both of us, we're talking thoroughly through everything that's happened tomorrow, because I have a _lot_ of questions. Do you hear?"

"I hear you. And I promise I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

"You better." Louis gives him a narrowed once-over. Harry just smiles giddily, very tiredly, with closed lips and eyes that are droopy, his hands in his pockets. Adorable. Soft. Like a weight's been lifted from his shoulders.

Louis also wants to ask Anne about himself, too. About his dreams, his visions, what they could be. See if she can help him in some way. It's worth a shot. As long as he proves to her he's someone that deserves to stick around for her son.

He has his work cut out. But Harry's worth it.

Quiet falls between them gently, the air around them distinctly heady once more, sending tingles down his spine, his tummy doing somersaults.

Louis bites down a tired grin.

"Alright, I really am going now. Sleep." He ruffles his fingers through Harry's fluffy hair, the other boy pliant under his touch. Louis' chest flutters.

"Wait," Harry says, grabbing his hand.

"Harry," Louis smiles, head flopping every which way, feeling drunk on Harry's touch, on the sound of him tittering under his breath. "Steady on. I said tomorrow, Curly. Honestly." He grasps Harry's fingers. Squeezes. Caresses. "Dream about me if you're that obsessed with me." 

"Shut up," Harry breathes. A beat. A soft bounce of perpendicular feet. "Right. Okay," he says quietly, doing a poor job of concealing his own smile as he briefly ducks his head. "Well. Goodnight, Louis."

He meets Louis' eyes. Hopelessly disarming, irises glazed. 

"Goodnight, Harry."

"Bye," Harry whispers. "I hope your dreams are good to you tonight," he murmurs. "Only sweet things. No horribleness is allowed. I said so."

Louis huffs softly. They're still gripping onto each other's hands.

"And. Thank you. For today. For everything."

"You're most welcome, Harry," Louis replies, voice ridiculously gentle and... so obviously smitten. "I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship," he lilts through his eyelashes, teasing and also not. 

Harry beams at him. "Are you sure you don't want to stay a bit longer?" he asks, hopeful despite practically falling asleep standing up.

"Goodnight," Louis smiles.

Reluctantly, he forces himself to let go of Harry's warm fingers, slowly, only taking them away completely until he's barely, embarrassingly still trying to hold onto Harry's fingertip, and then heavily traipses into the hall, quickly wrenching the door open with weakening arms before he can change his mind and turn around and do something he's far too exhausted to attempt right now, content with the promise of more talking, with the knowledge that Harry seems to be just as taken with Louis as he is with him, and the rest of the weirdness, the disconcerting trouble that seems to be brewing, everything that's gone on today...

That can wait at least another day.

For now. Sleep.


	8. viii.

 

The room is definitely swaying.

Yesterday he’d been so exhausted, Louis had fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, dreamless and unusually content.

Except he’d jolted awake in a cold sweat, his body racked in shivers and, most alarmingly, with the bewildering phantom touch of lips grazing his own mouth, startling him out of his overheated, prickling skin.

Panic fired through his limbs, a piercing surge of overwhelming emotion pooling in his chest, sticking in his throat. He sat up, found that his arms were outstretched, as though his subconscious was reaching for something, for  _someone_. As though he was attempting to grab someone’s hand just before they fell.

Desperately.

He let them fall heavily to his sides, confusion pounding by his temples. He scrunched his eyes closed. That didn’t do any good either, could only see a face bathed in shadows flashing behind his eyes, their name on the tip of his tongue. _His_ name. But he couldn’t quite get there.

Wearily, he makes himself turn over, curling up on top of the sheets with his knees drawn up, his bare skin tacky, his eyes crusted with sleep as his fingers clutched his pillow.

 _“Just go!”_ a voice pleads, over and over, echoing in his ears.

“ _I’m not leaving without you_ ,” another voice calls, a shock of recognition flying through him. That was _his_ voice. Louis’ voice. He _said_ that.

Louis squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling shakily.

“Fuck’s sake,” he mutters, feeling sick as the words echoed dully in his head. The other voice feels like he should know who it belongs to, bringing with it a tidal wave of emotions he couldn’t remember ever feeling.

Attempting to catch them is like trying to hold water—it leaks through the gaps in his palms instantly as soon as he thinks he’s caught a single drop.

He decides to ignore it and push it all aside and lays his focus on the view from his open bedroom window instead. On the lush green canopy of trees lining the pavement, the sky once again a clear, tropical sea blue. The fresh, compressed, albeit sweaty scent of summer filling his nose wafts inside, urging him to get up and start the day.

Start another adventure.

Might as well. He can’t carry on lying here any longer. Not when he feels like he’s being haunted every time he shuts his damn eyes.

So naturally, he’s going to see Harry—seeing as getting himself tangled in some sort of quest seems to be something of an expertise for the boy witch he’s just met.

He’s already itching to see him again so soon, having absolutely no qualms about how clingy and keen he probably appears, practically flinging on his clothes in wild haste after using the bathroom and having a quick cold shower. He throws on a relatively clean Nirvana t-shirt and a pair of loose khaki shorts that he gives a quick sniff (the t-shirt not the shorts, as if that’s better. He really needed to do some laundry)—and dashes down the stairs, barely escaping knocking into the dresser, eyes catching on the unopened letter addressed to Harry, snapping it up and shoving it in his back pocket.

When Louis gets outside, he tries not to grin too widely when he sees Harry already waiting on his driveway, sitting cross-legged next to his bike on the ground, a second bike, shiny red and sparkling in the sun lying next to it.

“Hey.”

Harry looks up immediately, half-beaming, half-squinting when he sees Louis shut his front door and stride over to his spot on the driveway. “Hey.”

He’s adorned in a simple white tee with a neon green printed monkey on the front, which Louis quirks his mouth at (Harry smiling wider when he notices), and his lanky legs are in a pair of blue jean shorts, worn Reebok trainers on his feet. His mess of curls are slightly matted to his forehead and pale neck, the sun shining down on him, hair speckled with sunbeams and gold.

“You’re up,” he rumbles softly. Louis’ veins spike at the sound.

“Was starting to think you’d slipped into a coma.” He chuckles. “Had to mentally recite all the Pokémon to keep the boredom at bay.”

Louis rolled his eyes with an equally as wide smile on his face, thoroughly amused. “Geek.”

Harry’s mouth fell open in a mock gasp, delighted. “Pokémon is cool!”

“Yeah, gotta catch ‘em all.”

Harry laughed, shaking out his hair.

“What you got two bikes for?” Louis asked, picked at his nails, dug his teeth into the side of his cheek to calm his erratic, smitten as fuck heart. Though it must have been written all over his face. No wonder Harry looked so quietly smug.

“Oh, well, one’s for you,” Harry said simply, voice silky smooth like syrup. “Thought we could… like, go for a ride? Like, around the estate? To the park and that? I mean, if you want to?” He stood up, dusting his jeans off with clumsy hands. Watchful, round green eyes stuck to Louis. Patient. Hopeful. “And if you have any more questions, we can do that too?”

Another wing fluttered behind Louis’ ribs.

“Alright, yeah,” Louis grinned, nodding as he picked up the red bike, Harry watching with a delighted smile. “Could do with some exercise from being stuck inside a van for hours, as well. My legs may be irreversibly bent, Harry. You may need to use your magic on me.”

Harry chuckled. “Yeah? You didn’t wake up hoping I was all a dream, then? Didn’t come to the conclusion that I’m far too much trouble to be dealing with?” he joked, but there was a hint of uncertainty, worried doubt in his voice that Louis could pick out right away.

“No,” Louis shook his head, grin softening, locking his eyes with Harry seriously. “Never.”

Harry raised a surprised brow. “Never?” He hummed. “Big statement there. You might regret that later.”

Louis stayed quiet, shrugged his shoulders with a faint smile on his lips. “Thanks for the bike.” He lifted it, palm connecting with the seat.

“You’re most welcome, Louis.”

Harry gave him his cheesiest grin yet.

Louis’ skin felt flushed, heart flip-flopping out of his chest, felt doused in giddiness. “Come on, Mr Cheese Puff. Let’s go, then. Or! Could you make us fly instead?” he asked, eyes widened and gasping prematurely.

“No, I wait at least a few weeks before I ask someone to fly with me, you know.” Harry smirked, hands on front of his blue bike, extremely pleased with himself. Louis laughed, playfully shoving Harry out of the way as he hopped on the bike and started cycling down the road, Harry calling after him indignantly but with laughter still lacing his voice.

It’s now Thursday.

It’s been about a week since Harry literally dangled himself in front of Louis’ life, and every day they spend together, the more Louis treasures every lame joke, bottles the honking sound of Harry’s unabashed laugh, soaks up every ounce of the other boy’s attention.

They’ve basically become inseparable.                    

And maybe it should be a bit weird as it’s so fast, the way they’ve fallen into something of a whirlwind attachment—and for Louis, not just to anybody. He’s attached to a witch, no less—but it really doesn’t seem to matter that they’ve only officially been friends for a matter of days. You wouldn’t even know they were practical strangers only last week.

Not when Louis is completely comfortable existing in Harry’s space, not when Harry seems to want Louis’ company specifically, not when they’re effortlessly orbiting around the other, Harry at ease enough to be using casual magic in Louis’ presence.

It’s a thumb casually brushing Louis’ arm as they wait in line at the Chip Shop (Finn hasn’t been on shift this week. Louis thinks he must have gone to the coast with his family for the week).

It’s their hands knocking together as they refill their Diet Cokes in a Pizza Hut wearing shy, bitten smiles, hiding them as they simultaneously duck their heads.

It’s the warmth and stickiness of their arms and legs pressing against the other, no boundaries for personal space, as they stay up talking in Louis’ van until the early hours when the street is still asleep and the birds are chirping, even if there  _is_  currently an empty house to take advantage of.

It’s tiny electrical currents sparking, flickering between them like flashing lights, something new and twinkling and exciting, fizzing like a can of soft drink, propelling Louis into spiralling further into something he never wants to leave.

It’s Harry magically making Louis’ tea appear in his hand, or Harry switching the lights off with a flick of his wrist, or Harry’s eyes glowing a shimmery gold when he ‘accidentally’ makes that Aaron from the down the road fall off the swing with his cider in his hand after shooting Louis and Harry a dirty look and a muttered dickhead comment as they lie side by side in the grass, giggling to themselves, ankles tangling subconsciously.

And with the amount of time Louis is willingly, keenly spending immersing himself in Harry’s world, losing himself amongst the strange and extraordinary things that Harry reveals to him bit by bit—the rituals they perform on certain days of the week, the coven meetings they share, the meanings of the symbols around his neck—waiting out news from Brooke (who still hasn’t been in touch again yet), trying to piece together small clues and look for evidence in the stories that have been told throughout Harry’s childhood, about curses and hexes and myths that other lineages have been plagued with. Through all of this, Louis may have unintentionally deserted his current friends.

Well. It’s not much unintentional as it is a bit on purpose.

After all, there was a _reason_  Louis didn’t want to go on holiday with his mum and Amy this year, a reason he’s started to pull away from the lads at the park. Why he’s no longer investing any of his time in Finn.

But now… there’s Harry. And just maybe, _maybe_ , Harry’s in the same boat as Louis. Separate from his identity as a witch. Maybe he feels the same kind of isolation that Louis does. Perhaps has an interest, a yearning elsewhere, one that doesn’t lie at the dangling legs of the girls sitting on the brick wall in the park, a place that Louis is feeling increasingly left out of.

Not that Harry’s expressed any of this out loud. They talk. But not about  _that._

And no. Harry hasn’t tried to kiss Louis again. And neither has Louis attempted to make a move on him.

It was a long, intense day of spending every waking second in each other’s company, closely cooped up in the van, on their own little adventure, exhaustion soaking their bones. He shouldn’t be surprised that they’ve fallen into being friends so easily. That’s what he wanted. Right? To befriend Harry.

Though the thought that they only leaned in that night because they were too tired to question it any deeper sits horribly in his stomach.

But despite the lack of progress in the romantic department, Louis is happily letting the days rush past them in a flurry of bike rides and long, humid nights (and days) in the park.

And Harry laughs harder, enthusiastically teaches Louis parts of rituals and spells and what certain potions will do when mixed with other questionable looking liquids. Tells him about the weirdest ingredients certain spells require, and Louis will eagerly nod and prod and ask more questions with gigantic heart eyes popping out of his sockets like the sad, infatuated, silly git he is. All while his stomach flutters more frequently, and occasionally, calms and quietens him right down, makes him feel all the more peaceful and content, lying every which way in the van with Harry, falling asleep talking about nothing and everything until they drift off on half-uttered words.

They eat too much, drink too much, smoke too much, playing videos games with bare feet, throwing half-hearted insults laced with giddy amusement, laughing and bickering while sprawled on the floor in t-shirts stained with ketchup and melted cheese and flecked with grease. Finishing off the night with the shittiest film that could find in Blockbuster.

They even made jelly. At one in the morning. Just because.

Louis sat with the packet on the worktop, feet dangling, Harry sat on the floor looking up at him, a permanent amused smile on his face.

“Why is this taking so long to set?” Louis whined. “Look. It’s still liquid.” He groaned and whined some more, throwing the empty packet across the kitchen. “This is unacceptable, Harry! I’m bored of waiting.” He huffed. “You’re a magical being. Can’t you do something to speed it up?”

The sweep of Harry’s hand caught his eye.

Louis arched an eyebrow. “What did you just do?”

“Set the jelly,” Harry yawned, head tipped back lazily against the kitchen cupboard’s door.

Louis squinted, then inspected the bright green surface of the glass bowl set beside his thigh.

He poked it. It was squidgy, solid. Harry had indeed set it. With a wave of his hand and a yawn.

“The jelly’s done?” Louis grinned.

Harry mustered the cheesiest grin Louis had seen so far. “The jelly’s done,” he confirmed.

They inhaled the jelly in a matter of minutes, sharing the bowl on the kitchen floor and proudly showing each other their green stained tongues with relish and silly faces.

And Louis feels… happy. At this moment? Right now? Yes. Every word, every touch, every look from Harry makes Louis feel ecstatic, thrilled, cheeks aching from smiling so much. He’s basically walking on air and drowning in the miraculous wonder of magic, in every sense of the word.

Yeah, okay. He’s laying it on pretty thick. It’s kind of embarrassing. He’s aware he sounds absolutely enamoured in such a short space of time. But honestly. Louis defies anyone to spend a week with Harry, day in, day out, and not end up completely taken in by his unassuming cheeky charm. Louis’ just not immune.

Dreams. Another thing that Louis has founded he definitely isn’t immune to.

The next afternoon, after having been on another bike ride with Harry, the other boy had dashed inside, wanting another change of clothes as he waited for him outside.

Anne had been gardening, planting a new selection of bulbs in her frankly impeccable front garden, a new white picket fence (literally) complete with a gate having been put up in a matter of hours, the sun beating down on the front lawn as she squinted and gathered a smattering of soil on the hem of her summer dress. Dark strands of hair were loose beside her Oasis-style sunglasses. She looked pretty damn cool, it has to be said. And in a good enough mood to prod her with his questions.

He saw his chance, hoping he could finally attempt to put a name to what was happening to him now during the day or night, since there was an experienced witch to query with his troubles standing before him.

And he was so unbelievably tired these days. He couldn’t go on like this, waking up in a cold sweat with the hot press of phantom lips on his mouth, thinking he’d find blood smothering his hands, his heart racing with fear that someone was trying to kill him. He needed to tell someone what’s happening to him, someone other than Harry. Someone who really might be able to help him and explain to him what he so desperately wants to know. Put a stop to his nightmares, since he couldn’t even remember a night when he slept without one.

Anne had a pleasant, slack expression on her face. The lush vibrant lavender rose bush that now continuously gave Louis the creeps stood beside her crouched position on the grass, hands covered in dirty green gloves.

Louis cleared his throat with his fist. “Hello, Mrs Styles,” he began politely, hands behind his back, feeling decidedly painfully awkward.

“Oh,” Anne said, surprised. She smiled, “Hello, Louis. Harry with you, is he?”

“Yeah, he’s gone inside to get something. He’ll be back in a minute.” Louis smiled, squinting in the sun.

“Oh,” Anne nodded. Louis shifted his position on the grass, hands slipping into the deep pockets of his shorts.

Here it goes, Louis thought.

“Uh, actually, Mrs Styles—”

“Anne, please.” She smiled again, infinitely more relaxed around him today. It spurred Louis on further.

“I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Really?”

“Yeah… I feel like it’s maybe something you could help me with, seeing as it’s not exactly something that can be fixed easily… as an, um, ordinary person…” Louis fumbled, widening his eyes. “Not—not that you aren’t an ordinary person!”

An amused smile bloomed on Anne’s face. “You mean it’s perhaps something a witch could deal with?”

“Well… uh, yes,” Louis chuckled nervously. “Could you… help me, do you think? Please?”

“I’d have to know what you need help with first.” Anne studies him for a moment, expression curious. “Why don’t you come in and tell me about it?”

“Oh, okay,” Louis answered, watching as Anne got up and dusted off her hands, removing her gloves as she began to walk to the front door.

She paused, turning her head to look at him. “Oh, would you mind grabbing those pots on the floor? Just the three?”

“Sure,” Louis said, bending down to collect them.

“Thank you,” Anne smiled sunnily as she entered the house, Louis following behind her.

“Is Harry upstairs?” She asked when they got inside.

“Yeah, yeah. He…” Louis scanned the kitchen, stared at the multiple brass pots and pans hanging above the kitchen’s worktop and on the walls. “He is, yeah. Said he’d be done in a sec.”

Anne nodded amiably, tying a white floral apron around her waist.

Louis pressed his lips together, standing awkwardly by the worktop as Anne washed her hands, a world away from the tense edge she was on last night, struggling to hold onto the several plants in his arms.

“Just pop them down on the side, love,” Anne said voice bright and airy and a permanent, relaxed smile on her suntanned face. Louis wondered what’d brought on the sudden change in temperament towards him when she would have happily ignored his presence the night before.

“Do you want some orange juice? Freshly squeezed this morning?” She held out a full jug. She wasn’t kidding. It actually was freshly squeezed, judging by the amount of leftover orange skins next to the sink in a bowl.

“Oh, no thanks. Filled myself up with two coffees this morning already,” Louis grinned, plonking down the contents on his arms, lining up the potted succulents along the worktop, the sound of Anne’s strappy sandals moving behind him.

“So, what was it you wanted to ask me?” Anne asked, voice light and curious, but there was a slight crease between her brows. Her expression was mild but her eyes were marred with lingering doubt, a heavy sense of interest weighing Louis down.

“Oh,” he avoided her gaze, looking at his hands. He took a deep breath, meeting her inquisitive eyes.

“I’ve been having these dreams.”

“Dreams?”

 “Yeah, more like nightmares, really.”

Anne’s brows furrowed immediately, humming in sympathy. “I’m sorry to hear that. Do they keep you awake at night? Have you any had trouble sleeping?”

“Yeah, badly. I’ve been having them on and off for a while. A long time, actually, but it’s just lately they’ve… bled into the daytime? Like, I’ll pass out, blackout, whatever you wanna call it, and the dreams—they feel so real? Like they’re not really dreams, but kind of like—” _Visions_ , is what he doesn’t say.

“What do you dream of?” Anne’s gaze was intense, hanging off Louis’ every word as she pauses what she’s doing, hand resting against the worktop as though bracing herself. “Is there a particular recurring theme?”

Louis swallowed. “You could say that." He met Anne's worried gaze. "Most of the time, I’m running, and there’s always blood, either on the ground, on my hands, in the snow, and I’m being chased and a lot of the time there’s two of us—” he frowns, trying to remember the times when it feels like there’s someone else there, next to him, with him, someone he wants to protect, shield from whatever is after them both. “It feels like I’m trying to save someone? That I’m with someone.”

Anne nodded, taking in what he was saying seriously, a deep frown etched on her face. “What do they look like? The person you're with?”

“I… don’t know. I think they have green eyes, because they flash in my dreams sometimes but—”

“Green? Are you sure?” And there was edge to her tone now, sort of frighteningly urgent. Anne's fingers gripped her apron, her other hands clenched atop the counter.

“Well. They change colour a lot. Sometimes they’re gold, dark, purple….” Louis trailed off, struck with a sudden thought.

 _Harry’s eyes are green_ , he thought uneasily. They changed colour depending on his mood or whether he was doing magic. Louis cleared his throat, feeling hot, sweaty. “But I always lose them?” he explained, voice hoarser.

“You never see their face? Properly? Are they a boy? A girl?”

“I have a feeling they’re a boy? And there’s—” he cut off, looking Anne in the eye. It was more than a feeling. He knew it was.

Anne looked horrified now, anxious, _desperate._ As though she was thinking the same as him. “What?”

“That rose bush that you have planted? At the front of the house?”

Anne quieted for a moment. “What about it?”

“Roses. Um, the petals are in my dreams too, and they’re almost always splashed with blood.”

“My lavender roses?” Anne had a severe crease between her brows, her hands now entwined together tightly. “They’re always lavender?”

“Yeah. And, um. It feels like they’re following me now? I know it sounds stupid. But last night, when I was out with Harry, we were in the park and one just appeared out of nowhere. Just suddenly sprouted up by the swings. That’s not… normal, right? A rose doesn’t suddenly bloom out of nowhere. Harry didn’t do anything. So where did it come from?”

Anne continued to stay quiet, only stared at a spot next to Louis, confused? Shocked? Frightened?

Louis stared back, looked down at her hands. They were trembling.

“Anne?”

She finally met Louis’ gaze once more, opening her mouth to speak.

“Mum! Where’s my tie-dye shirt?” Harry called from upstairs.

Louis instinctively glanced toward the stairs, toward the sound of Harry’s voice, when he felt cold fingers grasp at his own.

He gasped.

“Louis,” Anne said, the worry evident in her voice, “if these dreams keep happening, you’ll tell me, won’t you? And the roses—if they keep appearing in odd places, come straight to me, alright?”

“But what does it mean? Can you help me?” Louis was aware he sounded so very young, scared and frantic for answers. He’d never cared less. There was something wrong, he knew it. “I hate feeling like this—like there’s this dark cloud constantly looming over me, like I’m being watched, like they want to—”

Louis swallowed hard. Because how could he think a nightmare could kill you? They’re not real. They’re a figment of his imagination. They’re just manifestations of his deepest fears and anxieties.

Unless they’re not at all.

“Is there something you can do? A charm you can place on me, or something? I don’t know the proper terminology here. But like, I dunno, something to help me sleep, to stop me dreaming?”

Squeezing his hand, reassuring and tight, Anne gave him a watery half-smile, which was frankly more alarming than if she had said nothing and left.

“Do you know something? What this could be?”

Averting her gaze, Anne let go of his hand. “I’ll fix up a sleeping draught for you. It’s not like modern medicine. It’s a potion. And actually, some very powerful magic.” She smirked, relaxing Louis’ tense shoulders. “Hopefully it should dull your dreams, blur them so that it feels more like you’re drifting through clouds in your subconscious. No clear images should be able to get through. It’s temporary, though. I need to look into it.”

“God, thank you so much, Anne. I really appreciate this.”

“Just come back tomorrow and I should be finished.”

“I will,” Louis smiled, “thank you.” It was something. Even if Anne wasn’t willing to share her thoughts just yet. The idea that she had some inkling of what Louis’ dreams meant though—it stirred unease his chest. Still, he kept the frown off his face.

“Mum!” Harry called again.

“I’ll go up and help him,” Louis chuckled.

“Louis?”

He paused in the doorway.

“Yeah?”

“Do you _ever_ see the other person? In these dreams? Even quick glimpses?” Her eyes were swimming with fear, dread, with something else he couldn’t quite decipher.

Either way, saying out loud, _I think I might be seeing your son,_ didn’t feel like the right time to blurt out the very real possibility.

Louis kept the thought to himself, feeling like it should stay secret for now, tampering down the urge to wince as the flash of green eyes and the almost primal urge to protect who they belong to dug themselves under his skin.

“No,” he said, “no, I never see their face. Not up close. I only know that they’re there, that I’m holding their hand sometimes.”

“Thank you for telling me. If there’s anything else, I hope you know you can trust me, Louis.”

Well. That was still up for debate, if Louis was honest.

“Mum!” Harry’s impatient voice yelled again.

“Same,” Louis said, ignoring the prickling in his chest, the urge to go to Harry. “I better go.”

And then he stilled, slightly shocked when he found that Anne had carefully, gently put her hand to Louis’ cheek, ever so lightly, a barely-there touch paired with a serious look.

Louis stared.

“Be safe,” she said ominously. “I’ll fix that sleeping draught for you as soon as I can.”

And she turned her back, leaving Louis bewildered, feet moving toward the stairs in search of Harry of their own accord.

 

***

 

There’s only four days left until Louis’ mum and Amy get home.

And still there’s no word about any progress from Harry’s aunt. Harry hasn’t shown his discomfort and worry outwardly, at least not really in front of Louis, but he keeps up his optimism, sure that Brooke will be back soon with the leftover ingredients for the spell, and the curse will be lifted.

Louis doesn’t contradict him. Neither does Anne surprisingly, claiming Brooke sent a message just saying she’d be a bit longer now.

Harry didn’t say another word about it, instead continuing to stick close to Louis’ side, content to spend as much time as possible with him.

Louis doesn’t deny him this either. Just as content as he is with the time they’ve been spending together, aware of Anne’s hovering in the background, her lingering gaze as the two drive off in Louis’ van or take the bikes.

“What were you talking to my mum about the other day?” Harry asks casually, his eyes round and prodding Louis with their concentrated gaze.

It’s decidedly not casual at all, though, and Louis tries to keep his smirk under control, hyper-aware of Harry’s body angled towards Louis as his tongue comes out first to lick a large swipe of ice cream of his cone, the chocolate flake in his other hand as he dips it into the ice cream and bites off half.

His bare knee apparently involuntarily bumps into Louis’. And stays there.

Finn is visible in his white jacket and hat behind the counter through the open windows inside the shop. They make eye-contact, and then Louis feels it again—Harry applying more pressure to Louis’ knee as he indulges another lick of his whippy.

They’re sitting on the wall outside the chippie, a Mr Whippy Ice Cream Van parked on the opposite road facing them, a short queue of parents and little kids tugging on their shirts, parroting out their choice of ice lolly or flavour, the sun setting behind them, the evening humidity still in full swing and saturating their skin under their clothes. The distant smell of meaty smoke a tell-tale signal that someone’s having a summer evening barbeque in a nearby back garden for dinner, along with half the neighbourhood, probably.

“Oh, um.” Louis pauses, breaks his staring contest off with Finn, who seems put-out that Louis’ attention is no longer on him.

And Harry seems to have noticed. 

“I asked her about my dreams.”

Harry pauses mid-lick, a crease appearing between his brows. “What did she say?”

“Not much. She said she's gonna look into it.” Louis leaves out the part where there was a heavy silent understanding that both he and Anne thought Harry was the faceless green-eyed boy in Louis dreams. Louis’ stomach swoops uncomfortably. “But in the meantime, to help me sleep better, she’s conjured up a sleeping potion for me.”

“Sleeping draught,” Harry nods, looking away as his ice cream cone balances limp in Harry’s hand, the ice cream nearly all gone.

“Yeah, that.”

Harry twirls his cone between his fingers.

“What?” Louis asks, after Harry stay quiet too long.

“No, it’s just—” Harry stops himself, frown quickly forming into a smile before he starts munching on his wafer cone. “Nothing, it’s—yeah. Forget I started anything.” His facial expression doesn’t really give anything away, but Louis picks out the barest hint of nervousness in his tone.

Louis sighs, shaking his head, which makes Harry look at him. “I wish you wouldn’t do that, Harold. All these unfinished sentences. Tell me,” Louis pleads, voice shrill. He smiles. “Please? I thought you were gonna tell me anything I wanted to know.”

Harry sighs himself, around an amused quirk of his mouth. He averts his eyes from where they not particularly subtly fell to Louis’ mouth, still finishing off his own cone.

He presses his lips together, keeping his gaze ahead. “It’s nothing major. I get the feeling my mum would rather I wasn’t friends with you. It’s pretty much been like that since we moved here.”

“Nothing major? Oh, cheers, Harry, you’ve just told me your mother doesn’t like me!” Great. Louis’ suspicions are confirmed. “Is what she gave me actually poison? Is that what you’re gonna tell me next?”

“No, Harry laughs. “It’s not like she hates you. She just… is a bit wary. Doesn’t quite trust you yet, or… something.” Harry’s face smooths out into something more serious, contemplative.

“Doesn’t make me feel better," 

Louis says, lifting his chin haughtily.

“No, it came out wrong,” Harry splutters.

“How was it supposed to come out, then, Harry?” Louis smirks, enjoying teasing him and reaching out to ruffle through Harry’s curls, letting the softness thread between his fingers. “What’s so unlikeable about me that your mum obviously thinks I’m a bad influence?”

“She doesn’t, I swear!” Harry insists, his cone long forgotten now, inches away from falling through Harry’s loosening grip.

Louis raises his brows, exaggerated. And honestly, Harry is so easy to wind up and as much as he enjoys teasing him, seeing that pink blush flood his ivory cheeks, he would like to know what Harry is actually trying to tell him. There’s a genuine streak of nervousness and embarrassment in Harry’s mirthless eyes now, those deep green eyes that bore into Louis’, so attentive, so watchful.

And the fact of the matter is, since Louis has Anne of his nightmares, she _has_ been weird with him. Perhaps more on and off, but it’s there. That underlying tension every time Louis knocks on their door for Harry.

Sometimes she smiles as she opens the door, greeting him pleasantly, or sees him arriving back home with Harry in tow, and her eyes will fall heavily on her son before she shoots Louis a little “hello”.

She even asked about his sleeping patterns a couple of days ago, checked he was doing okay, inquired about any side effects of the potion he might be experiencing.

(There’s been none. Louis’ slept like a baby these past few days.)

And then other times she stares at Louis like he’s grown two heads or is literally the Devil’s spawn or something, terrified to let her son go out and play with him. (Alright, that sounded wrong, but the gist is there.)

“The thing is…” Harry halts his words, tosses his head back, and suddenly groans in frustration.

Louis lets out a laugh. “What’s up with you, Harold? You’ve gone all red.”

“Stop,” Harry murmurs under his breath, reddening more. He seems determined not to make eye contact with Louis at any cost. “This is your fault.”

“My _fault_?” Louis gasps, pressing a smile between his ice cream slick lips. “Come on. I’m all ears.”

“Okay,” Harry finally relents. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, or like, read into this or anything. Okay? I’m just stating facts about us, right? About… what a witch’s, like… um, love life sort of entails.”

Louis stills, feeling his smile fade. “Uh, right. Okay.” Odd topic. Abrupt topic, even.

Does Harry _like_ him? Has Louis’ pining all been culminating to this one moment? Is Harry about to confess his huge, all-consuming _crush_ on Louis??

Can Louis expect a _kiss_?

His heart starts to race, nerves settling into his limbs, loosening them.

This is too much to think about.

He listens with sincere, rapt attention, facing Harry head on, despite Harry literally looking anywhere but at him.

“Oh, god, this is—uh,” Harry stammers awkwardly. “First of all, it’s complicated for a witch to date people. Dating people who aren’t witches is sort of frowned upon? A lot of us end up in arranged courtships and things. Through our covens. Because it's complicated. Deciding who to trust."

Louis hums. Feeling deflated.

Harry’s teeth bury into his bottom lip. “And, uh... My mum isn't pleased because she thinks that—” he trails off, covers his face in his hands. “This is embarrassing,” he laments.

“Harry,” Louis titters softly, gently tugs on one of Harry’s fingers. “I won’t make fun of you or anything, I promise.”

“But it’s about _you_ ,” Harry says into his hands, words muffled. Louis gently places a hand on Harry’s slender, pale wrist. The other boy jolts at the touch.

“What about me?” Louis asks softly.

Harry lifts his head from his hands, awkwardly levelling his gaze with Louis’, eyes dotted with a hint of trepidation. “She thinks I have a crush on you.”

Oh. _Oh._ Harry does like boys.

And… Harry might like Louis?

Louis doesn’t ask if he does, settles on a safer option for now, hope blooming in his chest.

“Okay," he grins, "and is that a bad thing, then? For a witch to have a crush on an ordinary, mere mortal like me, I mean? Is it like… forbidden?” he jokes, letting the word hang there, precariously between them. Waiting for Harry to either deny or confirm that his mother has the right idea.

Harry quiets instead.

“It’s not really what we’re supposed to do, no. And there are…Things. Reasons why.”

Louis frowns. “Like?”

“Well… I have a theory… not like, fully formed or anything, but I’ve been thinking and I’m sure it has something to do with the curse.”

“Would something happen? Something bad? If you did go out with someone who isn't a witch?” Louis asks slowly, ice cream deserted. He chucks it in the bin a little away from them, situated on the edge of the low, red brick wall.

Harry does the same.

The air around them falls into awkward silence.

“We’re supposed to stick to relationships within the same coven. To ensure loyalty. In case their family isn’t trustworthy. What with some witches still bogged down with centuries’ old betrayals and grudges and stuff.”

“And stuff. Kinda medieval."

“Yeah.”

“Right.”

More silence. Their legs bumping once again, the hairs on Louis’ calve standing on end. He stares at the cement laid ground, at the dustiness, the flyaway gum wrapper disregarded around the bin.

“Must be a pain,” Louis finally says.

“What?” Harry’s eyes flick to Louis, mouth forming a slight pout, kneading the pads of his fingers together.

“Not to really be able to choose you can love,” Louis says quietly.

An understanding.

They stare at the other for a long moment. Louis’ throat feels dry.

“So. That’s why your mum might be wary of me.”

Bold. He’s going to try being bold. He is with everyone else. Only Harry might actually mean something to him this time.

“Why are you?”

Harry’s brows knit together, confused. “How do you mean?”

“You haven’t tried to kiss me again.”

“I tried to kiss _you_?” Harry’s grin is slow, voice amused as his cheeks turn slightly pink, but clearly, he’s pleased Louis brought it up.

Thank god.

Louis shrugs with a smile. “Yeah. I reckon so.”

“I thought _you_ were the one who leaned in first,” Harry grins. “No?”

“Oh, so you _do_ remember that was a thing that happened, then?” Louis says, tone teasing, angling his head to the side.

“I thought you didn’t… want to bring it up. Maybe…” Harry replies, smile fading.

“I thought you didn’t,” Louis counters.

They grin at each other, giddy and silly, neither of them knowing what to do with their hands.

They walk home standing a bit closer that night.

 

***

 

“How much can you really _like_ someone when you’ve only known them all of a week?”

Louis murmurs the words into the cooler summer air, saturated with a high pollen count that’s making his nose itch, his sinuses a little bunged-up. His arms are folded underneath his head, working as a cushion for his surprisingly non-sweaty neck (for once).

He’s laid out on the grass in the park, the sky a cloudless, vibrant blue that’s bright and hypnotising and calm as he stares up at it, Niall cross-legged at his side, engrossed in the new Pokémon Blue on his Game Boy, lucky enough to have gotten it earlier than most. All because his aunt lives in America now and brought it over for him on her summer holiday visit to England.

He may have been ignoring everyone else but he always has Niall. And since Niall’s so preoccupied, frowning down at his game, thumbs working tirelessly, the odd swear word muttered under his breath, it gives Louis time to think, to build up to what he’s trying to tell him about Harry.

Not that he’s a witch. God, no. That secret is safely tucked behind Louis’ ribs, the key thrown away.

Niall suddenly lifts and settles an icy blue gaze upon Louis, brows furrowed deeply. He points his Game Boy at him, clearly annoyed and not seemingly unbothered now, as he so thought. Oops.

A rookie’s mistake.

Of course he's upset with Louis.

“Right. I see. So, your mum and sister went abroad for ten days, and I haven’t seen you once for the last seven of ‘em, mate. Where the fuck you been, you prick? You're never at home when I knock for you, either.”

“I’m sorry, Ni," Louis says, guilt flooding his cheeks, "I’ve just—I’ve been busy?” he tries, voice remorseful. He does feel bad about leaving Niall out. He hasn’t made an effort at all really, since Harry came on the scene. The truth is, Harry has taken up so much space in his head recently. But he needs to fix this. Niall's his best friend and he's been a shit one to him.

Which is why he’s decided he's going to introduce Harry to him. It can't hurt to mix them. They can go to the pub and all sorts.

“Busy?"

“Yeah,” Louis smiles, slow and rueful. He rolls over on his side, hands cushioning his cheek. “I promise I’ll make it up to you?" He smiles sweetly, attempting to soften the butter Niall is actually made up of. Niall's frown stays firmly in place.

"I really am sorry. I haven’t been intentionally avoiding you or anything. There is a reason why I’ve been particularly… absent.”

Niall hums. There’s a pause. Suspicious eyes. “Are you—you know,” he says milder, expression curious as he regards Louis’ squirming movements.

“Am I what?”

“You shagging a new bloke?” Niall says bluntly. "Finn was asking after you, by the way."

Louis rolls his eyes.

“Niall,” he hisses. He gives him a soft whack which is what finally prompts a bloody smile out of his friend. “No. I have not. And I don't care about Finn, so do not direct the bloke to me under any circumstances, alright? But... I have invited a new friend here this evening,” he says, all prim and haughty, lifting his chin and clearing his throat theatrically.

“For you to meet. And only you, because you’re special."

Lifting a brow, Niall pulls back, swigging from his cider can. “That right? Wouldn't happen to be that doe-eyed kid walking over here, would it?”

“How do you know he’s doe-eyed?” Louis says as he whips his head around. 

It’s indeed Harry, striding forward casually but a little nervously, his shoulders hunched high and stiff and Louis hates he can tell that sort of thing. Harry’s face is smiley and confident and relaxed. His body, however, is an uncomfortable wreck.

“Hey,” Harry greets timidly as he stops just in front of their feet, as brightly as he can muster. Louis sits right up. He can see he’s nervous as Harry slowly settles down next to Louis, who immediately starts making room for him. He presses their thighs together as Harry's knee knocks into his. He's wearing a bright red t-shirt. Louis can't stop staring at him, a low swoop in his belly disturbing his internal organs. He feels gooey and everything is so bright. Warm. Electric.

Louis actively has to stop himself from holding Harry's hand. It's resting right there. Between them on the grass. Long, pale fingers and a slender wrist, decorated in all his rainbow coloured strings and bracelets.

He lets their pinkies touch.

Harry instantly flicks his gaze toward the contact, meeting Louis' eyes with a thoughtful, soft smile.

“Alright, you?” Louis smiles widely. “Couldn’t stay away or?” he teases, pitching his voice higher.

“Or?” Harry smiles, still on the shy side in front of Niall. Speaking of.

“Oh. So, Niall, this is Harry. Harry, this is my mate, Niall.”

“How are ya?”

"Good. It's great to meet you," Harry smiles.

Niall nods, slowly, solemnly, staring at him with a harsh brow. He lowers his voice. “And what are your intentions with my Louis?”

“Um…” Harry starts, eyes wide and alarmed and blushing crimson. Louis waits a second or two before he saves him, pressing his lips together to avoid grinning his face off.

“Ignore him.”

“Oh,” Harry stutters out a laugh, still embarrassed, still looking like he wants to make himself disappear.

“I wouldn't,” Niall continues in his laughably non-menacing Godfather voice. “I’m serious.”

Louis scoffs. “He’s having you on, Harry.”

“I can speak for myself.”

Niall stares for a few more ridiculous seconds before his grin breaks out, leaping up off the ground and over to Harry’s side on the grass so that the curly-haired, wide-eyed boy is sandwiched between him and Louis.

His grin seems to be contagious because Harry’s own forms, dimples deep in each cheek as he lets himself be welcomed into Niall’s world, who passes Harry a spliff of all things. As if this is some kind of initiation ceremony. Louis rolls his eyes.

“Smoke?” Niall asks, eyes trained on Harry questioningly.

“Yeah, thanks,” Harry says easily, taking the proffered cigarette from Niall’s fingertips. He takes a drag and exhales effortlessly. Louis has to refrain from watching him, the urge to kiss him becoming increasingly hard to ignore since yesterday evening’s confessions.

“So you’re the kid who’s been hijacking my best mate, eh?” Niall starts and Harry’s face twitches, brows creased.

“Uh…” Harry looks helplessly again at Louis.

Louis laughs, winding an arm around Harry’s shoulder and tucking him into his side. “He is guilty.”

“Excuse me,” Harry frowns. “You didn’t tell me you were neglecting your friends while spending all your time with me.”

“Ah, yes. I am guilty of that. But I’ve promised Ni I’m gonna make it up to him. How 'bout we go for a drink later?”

“I’m up for it if you two are,” Niall says, but his tone is very obviously suggestive. Harry’s face is open, unaware that Niall’s smirk means he thinks the two of them are… well. Getting up to things in the van.

“Yeah, that’d be nice,” Harry agrees. “Lou?”

Another swoop. Louis warms at the nickname. “Yeah. Definitely,” he smiles.

 

***

 

With a promise to Niall that they’ll meet later around seven tonight at The Crown and Horseshoe, they go for an afternoon drive further out of town, parking somewhere remote and secluded from prying eyes down a country lane.

They spend a few hours in the van, Louis watching with mesmerised attention as Harry mixes basic spells for Louis, concoctions and charms that are mostly make things float. Which is pretty wicked.

Louis attempts to catch them in his mouth, which in turn has Harry guffawing and clapping and results in Louis spraying whatever fizzy drink they were using in Harry’s shocked, then weirdly thrilled face.

“Now you’ve got my spit all over you,” Louis smirks. “Enjoy that. And I know you will.” He winks.

Harry goes red, shaking his bent head. “God, I hate you.”

“You’re a liar.” Louis raises his eyebrows, wiggling them like the idiot he is.

Harry takes the bait.

“True,” Harry admits lowly.

And they grin, happy and flirty and young. Two giddy fledglings navigating their first real crushes. At least Louis hopes that’s the case for Harry. He may be blowing his own trumpet here, but he feels it his bones.

Harry _likes_ Louis and Louis likes Harry _back._

It’s been seven days, and Louis is already completely besotted and it seems the same for Harry, his eyes never straying far from Louis’ face, open and lingering and bright.

It’s been seven days of Harry, Harry, Harry.

Butterflies fill the cracks in Louis’ chest, in the gaps and crevices of his limbs and organs and cells.

They haven’t kissed once.

And still Louis is beyond delighted as he soaks up yet another bashful, somewhat charmingly smug, crooked smile Harry shoots his way, green eyes flashing with desire and affection and teenage infatuation, lazily threading a hand through the longish hair at Louis’ nape, like it’s just a usual thing he does, easy, familiar, normal.

Meanwhile, Louis’ heart pounds against his ribs, wondering how long it’ll be until they finally lean in.

 

***

 

Pulling into his driveway, Louis is glad to not be driving at last, discomfort aching through his body as he feels a dizzy spell coming on, his temples starting to throb.

And then there’s the strangest feeling that he’s being watched again. He frowns, braking and then turning off the engine.

Harry yawns beside him, stretching contentedly, sending warmth soaring to Louis’ deepest innards. He seems happy. Louis is definitely happy. Minus all the weird shit that’s still going on with him.

So as to not be the one responsible for wiping that doting, oblivious smile off Harry’s lovely, smooth face, Louis decides against telling Harry that he's feeling odd once again, not wanting to worry him, instead following the other boy out as he shoots Louis a quick smile and hops out of the passenger seat with ease.

Louis slams his door shut. “Well. That was fun, Harold,” he says, as though this was some kind of magic date.

“Yeah?” Harry laughs, for no apparent reason other than having entertained Louis apparently.

Louis nods slowly, humming his affirmation.

“I reckon you’ll have to show me something else some time,” he says softly, words drenched in suggestion, chancing another coquettish flutter of his eyelids, a mischievous smirk. “I learned some things but I’m sure there plenty more.”

“Obviously.”

Grinning and giggling in short bursts of breath, Harry avoids Louis’ gaze, lanky limbs endearingly uncoordinated as his shining green eyes hook over Louis’ shoulder.

Louis nabs at him, unashamedly and constantly thirsty for his attention, fingertips lightly tickling at Harry’s fleshy hips peaking out of his elasticated cream shorts, until Harry’s face abruptly changes, morphing from a grin into a wide gasp of surprise, quickly followed by relief and then utter joy.

“Oh, my god. She’s here,” Harry mutters quietly, a disbelieving smile spreading across his mouth. “Aunt Brooke!” he calls louder, scampering over to the woman walking towards them from across the road without even a glance to check if a car is coming either way.

A car does come. Speeding past the house.

A jolt of panic shoots at his chest before Harry reaches the other side, practically jumping into the woman’s outstretch arms, a wide, toothy smile on her young face.

“Christ,” Louis mumbles, dragging his hand back through his hair.

Louis would curse the kid if he had the means. Running into the road like that without a care. Honestly. (Settle down, Louis. Wow.)

“Haribo!” Brooke yells, exaggerated and sparkling as is her smile, clearly full of affection for her nephew.

So this is Harry’s favourite auntie.

Louis watches with a warm feeling in his chest as Harry squeezes his aunt in a bear-hug, the two of them swaying on the spot like long-lost friends.

Louis has to admit, he’s more than surprised to see her, not least because she seems to be instantly familiar to Louis. Which is… weird. Very weird. Like some kind of déjà vu type of situation. Which again, doesn’t really make a lot of sense. But what does nowadays.

Maybe it’s that Brooke’s hair is straight shoulder-length brown, much like the shade of Harry’s milk chocolate-infused curls. Maybe that’s why. She really does look a lot like Harry: milky skin, a tendency to walk slightly off-kilter and wonky, dressed in a lightweight, rusty-orange jacket a size too big for her, blue jeans and a pair of white plimsolls on her feet.

Definitely no neon sign above her head with an arrow that says: WITCH HERE.

Louis feels himself smile as she gets closer, swinging Harry’s hand as he rambles, his gaze falling on Louis, Brooke following Harry’s gaze to him and sliding her round sunglasses further into her hair.

As she gets nearer, her eyes appear dark, like strange orbs of coal, but they’re kind, friendly, Louis thinks, further evident by the fact she’s wearing a beaming smile that she directs at Louis, her lipstick bright red.

“You must be Louis,” she says upon greeting him, a knowing glint in her eye.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Louis replies. “I’ve heard lots about you, too. It’s nice to put a face to the name.”

Brooke watches him carefully, a smile dancing on her red lips. “Hmm. Yes, I’m sure you _have_ ,” she says, the word loaded, obviously alluding to the fact that she knows Louis knows about them being witches. At least that conversation is out the way, Brooke trusting Harry’s judgement it seems. She pinches Harry’s cheek and he shakes her off instantly with a startled noise, ducking out of her grasp, blushing.

Louis titters under his breath.  

“Hey, look. I’m so glad you’re here, I really am, but quit embarrassing me, okay? I’m not six anymore, in case you hadn’t noticed,” Harry says, tone indignant.

Brooke gasps, planting a hand on her chest. Louis can get behind her dramatics. “You hurt me, Harry.”

Harry rolls his eyes, smiling.

Brooke grins, then releases a drawn-out sigh, placing her hands on her hips in a business-like manner, staring up at Harry’s house, a medium-sized black fabric bag strapped across her front.

“Right,” she announces. “So. We’ve got a curse to deal with, right, boys?”

Louis and Harry look at each other, smiles faltering.

“We’ll deal with that. But first, I say you make me a cuppa, H. I have a lot to get through,” she says more solemnly.

Harry leads the way to the door.


	9. ix.

 

“So, we need to have a chat,” Brooke begins, the sentence sounding loaded to Louis’ ears as she steps over the threshold into Harry’s house; her gaze fleetingly lingers on the rose bush in the front garden, eyes flickering with a flash of unease. Harry doesn’t seem to catch it, but Louis sees it, gone as quick as it comes.

Louis glances over his shoulder, feels a brief pang of discomfort. He quietly clears his throat, startled for a moment when Harry’s fingers unseeingly reach behind himself, brushing over the back of Louis’ hand, a quiver tingling Louis' skin.

He stares discreetly at the elongated shape of Harry’s back, his slight shoulders swimming in his t-shirt as Harry halts his steps, pausing in the hallway.

“There’s some things I’m sure you’ve desperately wanted answers for, like why your mother is so secretive, especially her little hobby of keeping the origins of the curse under wraps from your ever-curious eyes. Got that from me, I’m afraid,” Brooke says wryly, some of the humour drained from her face and a sterner expression transforming her eye-catching features—her dark brows and dark eyes and her striking shade of lip colour. “'A nosy little madam since birth'. Your mother’s words.”

She turns around to face them, eyes meeting Louis’ for a split-second before her gaze settles back on Harry’s.

“Yeah,” he sighs, sounding a bit tired. Louis itches to thread their fingers together, still tingling from the phantom touch of Harry touching his hand, accidental or not.

He thinks not.

_Pitter patter, pitter patter._

“As much as I’ve practically begged her to tell me already, she won’t budge. I thought she was about to tell me at last about a week ago, but no. She backed out. Yet again. Her bloody cryptic riddles are bloody driving me up the wall," Harry complains. 

“Anne to a T,” Brooke mutters, rolling her eyes. “Will we be expecting her anytime soon?”

“She’s at the salon,” Harry shakes his head, “and then Karen is taking her for drinks afterwards in town. She’s probably not gonna be back here until eleven.”

Brooke nods. “Okay, that’s plenty of time to tell you the things you need to know now that it's urgent. She knew that. Especially now.” She stares solidly at Harry, as though there’s no one else with them, as though Louis isn’t even here.

Then her eyes flick to Louis briefly and he wishes she hadn’t. Because it's not exactly friendly. It’s an odd look. An unsettling stare, a wordless warning. Louis furrows his brows, raising one in question impatiently, heartbeat speeding up as he tries to decipher the heavy look. She looks away again, shoulders slumping as she studies her nephew’s face intently.

“Does that mean _you’re_ really going to tell me?” Harry asks, hopeful. Louis can hear the grin in his voice, trying to get around her with his adorable charm. “Before she gets home? You know she’s gonna want to wring your neck when she realises.”

“Yes. I’m aware, but it’s high time your mum stopped hiding this from you.”

“Is it really that bad?” Harry asks, voice slightly less eager now.

"Depends what you class as 'bad'."

It’s as Louis’ about to shut the door behind them that he spots Niall walking leisurely up the pavement, half-obscured by the leaves on the trees that are saturated with lush green, attention caught on his Game Boy. He’s dressed in a navy short-sleeved shirt; blonde highlights flecked almost silver in this very late afternoon sun. A pair of baggy white sports shorts hang comically loose on his skinny, pasty legs and he’s got on a ridiculous pair of ugly neon green sunglasses.

Louis grins, laughing under his breath. He has half a mind to rib him for the look and tell the—oh. A stark reminder that Louis that his life did not revolve around Harry a week ago and that he made Niall a promise, as casual as it was. He checks the time on his G-Shock watch: it’s gone six already. He must want to walk up into town together, dutifully prepared to wait at least half an hour for Louis to get ready. A slither of hot guilt flares up in centre of his chest, outwardly cringing before Niall spots him and waves to Louis, flipping him the bird straight after.

Chuckling, Louis gives it right back to him. He can’t tell him he’s too busy for the pub now. He already neglected Niall enough this week. (And Niall is also the only one he can fully confide in at the moment.)

(Well, on everything that isn’t to do with witches existing.)

So, there’s that. And really, he could desperately use his best friend’s advice if he wants his newly blossomed relationship, or… well. Let’s say _friendship_ with Harry to progress any further. Niall’s good at that. And that’s not even touching on the inkling Louis has that Niall swings that way too, as well as having an eye for the ladies. So. That’s something they should really talk about.

If Louis actually remembers to make time for him. His track-record lately has been piss poor.

“Oh, Harry—” he starts, posture stiffening against its will when Harry instantly turns around at the sound of his voice in the doorway and Louis’ stomach swoops. Another _pitter-patter_ from his ever-swelling heart as those big, owlish green eyes stare into Louis’ soul, like he’s a freaking extraordinary, ethereal creature who lives in the woods and casts magical spells and can carry objects through the air with just his hands—

Which. Yeah, that’s basically Harry, isn’t it?      

But he can’t blow Niall off again to watch a pair of modern-day witches play with spells and curses.

“Yeah?” Harry asks simply, a close-lipped smile in place, shoulders relaxed, face open, trusting. He glances back at Brooke briefly before he turns back around to gives Louis his undivided attention.

And positively Louis preens under it.

He itches a spot behind his ear, meeting Niall’s eyes across the driveway. His friend wags his eyebrows in question, taking a spot on the low brick wall that separates the driveways, taking off his shades to chew on. Revolting child.

Louis holds up a finger to say _one minute_.

“Uh—” Louis gestures with his thumb, pointing to Niall as Harry walks closer to the door. “Niall’s just turned up. Must want to walk with us to the pub instead?”

“Oh, yeah! We said we’d meet him there,” Harry nods in realisation. “Um—"

“Yeah, so… What do I tell him?” Louis looks to Brooke, who’s already walked inside into the kitchen. “Are we still going? This seems pretty important, what your aunt wants to tell you. You don’t have to go.”

Widening his eyes in recognition, Harry opens his mouth then closes it, seemingly torn about whether to stay with his aunt and listen to what she has to say or go with Louis and Niall for a drink.

Louis’ doesn’t think it’s that much of a hard decision. Niall’s Niall, not Leonardo DiCaprio.

“What’s taking you boys so long?” Brooke says, dark brows furrowed as she walks back into the hallway. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Yeah,” Harry grimaces. “Do you mind if we do this tomorrow? Or later, maybe? One more evening isn’t going to hurt, right? I know you said it’s urgent but—”

Brooke quiets, seemingly think this over. Louis can see the clogs turning inside her head. She sighs, shoulders deflating. “I need to tell this before we try anything, H,” she informs him, tone suddenly serious. “With the spell. You need to know what we’re dealing with before you can help me.”  

Harry’s face morphs into a concerned expression at the traces of sympathy in her voice. “Oh. Well. Can it not wait ‘til later? Because we actually kind of had plans, like before you arrived,” he says, apologetic. “I’m really sorry. I know I wanted to get this over with—the curse and—”

“Trying to counteract this curse, Harry… it _will_ take a long time, you know that?” Brooke says, levelling him with a rueful look. “It’s not a quick fix. The spell I found. It’s a complicated ritual. It’s going to take both our magic to even touch on a chance of banishing it completely. It’ll likely take a lot of trial and error. Even with your mum helping, too.” She pauses, taking a breath and then exhaling, sort of hopelessly. Louis doesn’t have a good feeling. “You know this will affect you, don’t you?”

“What does that mean?” Harry frowns. “Are you talking about the curse or the doing the spell?”

“Both. You mum told me about your difficulty controlling your magic under certain… emotional states.”

Harry frowns deeper. “Right.”

“I’m sorry,” Brooke apologises around a rueful grimace. “I asked your mum about how you were doing. For once she didn’t put her foot in it herself—"

“No. It’s fine. I’m not upset. It’s the truth.” Harry shrugs.

Brooke doesn’t look convinced. Louis isn’t completely himself either. A nerve has definitely been poked.

“No, really, it’s fine,” Harry sighs, perking up dramatically quickly, his smile easy. “And I gathered it wouldn’t be simple. The spell and everything,” he nods. “But how about you get settled in first, have some dinner—I have leftover lasagne I made in the fridge—and I promise you have all my attention later on. There’s clean towels on the rails in the bathroom if you want them. I’ll speak to you later. Yeah?”

“I do need to gather everything together,” Brooke agrees, already slipping her shoes off, bare feet sticking to the wood like kitchen tiles. “And I _am_ famished.”

“No, no. You stay, Harry,” Louis interjects as he watches the scene in front of him, “I’ll tell Niall that something came up. Which it did. And this is more important, so.”

“No,” Harry insists, pouting. “We were both invited, right? And I _want_ to go. We can’t bail out now. I’ve already kept you from your friends long enough. You can’t abandon Niall again, Lou.”

“I’m not _abandonin_ g him,” Louis echoes, rolling his eyes. “I actually wasn’t going to. I was going to go alone,” Louis smirks, holding a hand over his chest. “And anyway. You and your aunt don’t need me here third wheeling important conversations that have absolutely nothing to do with me.”

“Actually, you should probably be here for what I have to tell Harry, too, Louis,” Brooke pipes up, her stare intently swiping over Louis, eyes dissecting him interestedly, a small but harsh crease in her forehead. “Makes things easier.”

Louis frowns, slightly bemused. “Oh. Okay?”

Brooke hums. “I’ll explain.”

Pausing, Harry shoots his aunt an inquisitive stare, eyes confused. Brooke merely shrugs at him, smiling innocently. Harry’s gaze falls back to Louis, sighing.

“I want to get to know your friend. I don’t exactly hang out with a lot of people who aren’t witches, so. Is that okay?”

“You’d rather come along to the pub with Niall and me? Instead of perhaps dealing with this maybe life-endangering curse that you were in a constant tizzy over in the first place?” Louis teases, slathering on an unaffected smile.

Nodding, Harry smiles back softly, his sweetly affectionate gaze flecked with an unsaid dare, a playful challenge, and effectively disassembling Louis’ composure, testing the almost incessant urge Louis has to just cup Harry’s lovely cheeks and pull him into a wildly hungry kiss.

“Yeah, just for tonight. Trouble tomorrow.”

Harry’s gaze lingers, a graceful hand absently brushing the bracelets on his wrist, fiddling with the loops as he keeps his eyes locked on Louis, hair softly ruffled and lips unbelievably pink.

God. Louis refrains from whimpering. He just wants to kiss him so badly.

It’s a huge predicament.

“Just for tonight,” Harry repeats. “We’ll deal with it tomorrow.” Harry meets Brooke’s gaze, eyes tinged with slight uncertainty. “Right?”

Brooke claps her hands together, abrupt and suddenly ready to party again. “Yes. Well. I need a soak in the bath, anyway. All this sweat and grime... It gets _everywhere_ ,” she groans, tone exaggerated. “And I need to cleanse my anxieties before I see your mother face-to-face again. I need to prepare for her judgy little stare and that’s not happening when I feel like I’ve been stuck knee-deep in mud.”

Louis blinks.

“Okay,” Harry drawls, frowning. “So? Go tell Niall I’ll be out in a minute. I just wanna change my shirt.”

“Okay,” Louis says with a huff, “Mr High-Maintenance,” he scoffs, smirking until Harry’s frown smooths out and disappears completely, a precious beaming smile spreading across that face that sends a barrel of emotions hurtling through him, one more prominent that most.

Joy.

 

***

 

Amongst the crowded, salty and ale perfume inside the pub’s walls, tables snatched up in seconds, the line along the bar growing rapidly as the evening grows, the windows down and open to let in the slight breeze of the summer air, sits Niall, Harry and Louis.

Niall splutters his beer, the foam around his mouth glittering like a toothpaste moustache in the warm hues of the pub, the surfaces washed in beige brown wood. Harry’s been telling Niall the most awful dad jokes known to man and Niall, it seems, is utterly besotted with him, laughing so hard his face had gone lobster red, crinkling his eyes shut whenever he tossed his head back in hilarity.

Safe to say they’re getting on like a house on fire. And no, Louis isn’t jealous. The pouting currently going on across his face is purely because of the embarrassing stories that Niall is relishing in telling to Harry.

And Harry.

Is loving every measly second of it, eyes sparkling with amusement, staring longingly at Louis whenever Niall touches on an especially sweet childhood moment—standing up for Niall when he’d get unwanted attention for his accent, and some older twats wanted to mercilessly tease Niall until it got so nasty that a fight broke out. Or the time when Louis fell out of a tree trying to retrieve a toy that unfathomably ended up tangled in the tallest branches for a little girl. He broke his arm and fractured his ankle, having to wear a cast for weeks. Niall sat in Louis’ bedroom with him every day after he came out of hospital, during another sweltering summer holiday when everyone else was outside playing football and Louis was extremely put-out he couldn't join in.

He sips on his beer and laughs at something else Niall says that Louis isn’t listening to because he’s petty and immature. Obviously.

A press of Harry’s warm thigh against his under the table wipes off his frown.

He glances up to see Harry already looking at him, his stare purposeful over the rim of his pint glass.

A very, very pleased grin immediately splits Louis’ face.

“So,” Niall’s voice interrupts loudly, “how come you two have only just decided to be friends now? You’ve lived next door to each other for easily a year, right?”

Harry nods, still smiling. Louis hooks their ankles together, causing another beam to blossom over Harry’s flushed cherubic and porcelain features.

“We just never crossed paths.” Louis gives a self-conscious shrug, taking a large gulp of beer as his eyes quickly dart in Harry’s direction. He can hardly tell Niall the real reason he started talking to Harry, how they actually met when Harry was halfway to falling out of his bedroom window.

“Louis actually talked me down from something,” Harry says instead, saving him for having to pull out an explanation of how they met.

Niall’s brows smooth out into a more serious stare.

“I hope it was nothing too serious? You alright, mate?” Niall asks him genuinely. Louis’ heart warms at his concern for Harry when he’s barely known for five minutes.

“No, yeah! Thanks, I’m fine,” Harry insists, smile shy. “Louis just—he helped me in a crisis one night and we became friends just like that. I’m kicking myself for not just saying hi properly much earlier. We all could have been friends by now,” he chuckles. “I guess I thought Louis was too cool for me.” Harry’s eyes seek out Louis’, lingering and filled with shyness and boldness both.

“Shut up. You’re the one—” _With magic_ , he was about to say.

Niall smirks. “Well, I’m glad Louis brought you round. I think we’re gonna get on well,” he says, tapping Harry on the arm. “You two obviously do.” He wiggles his eyebrows. Louis is going to strangle him. “Anyway, I’m popping back to the bar. Another drink, lads?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Harry smiles gratefully, once he’s made eyes at Louis. Curious.

“Sure, Ni. Cheers.”

Louis sits back in his chair, sliding his foot up Harry’s leg which makes the other boy giggle. “I need a smoke. You wanna come outside with me?”

“What about Niall?”

“We won’t be long,” Louis assures, waving at Niall at the bar and gesturing a smoking signal as he points at the door. Niall instantly produces an annoyingly smug grin, lifting his chin up at is to say _yeah, I knew it._

Insufferable.

“Come on, then,” Louis grins, holding the door open for Harry.

“Proper gent,” Harry comments, smile crooked, a glint in his eyes.

Louis hums, delighted.

It’s about ten past eight, the sun beginning to set, an orange canvas smothering the sky in pink and yellow hues, the air slightly fresher than earlier, yet still harbouring the humidity of the day, sticking to their bare skin, the sunset’s last rays speckling their hair like glitter. Music spills into the garden, The Cranberries' dreamlike harmonies of 'Linger' soaking up the space like a fine, sweet scent of wine.

They stand at the side of the pub, facing the gardens, slightly hidden underneath the roof of the pub and a wide-set, green umbrella at an empty table, a couple of glasses with the residue foam of a pint atop it, the remaining front tables at the entrance of the pub crowded and deep in conversation, saturated in sun tans and perfume and the numbing balm of alcohol. 

Louis’ stomach feels tight and airless at the same time, drowning in butterflies. His nimble fingers fumble a bit as he flicks his lighter to ignite his cigarette, aware that Harry’s body heat is intimately close to him, their arms practically pressing together.

He’s also aware that Harry’s eyes have not left him once, staring at Louis with a purposeful side glance that flits all over his face.

He inhales once it's lit and takes a deep drag, exhaling smoothly and tipping his head back, briefly closing his eyes. Still acutely aware of the heat of Harry’s piercing gaze.

“You look nice like this,” he hears Harry say softly, a tinge hoarse, a fleck of a nervous tremor in his voice that’s as gravelly and smooth as hazelnut chocolate, melting in the sun.

“Smoking?” Louis opens his eyes, amused, until his eyes meet Harry’s and his breath catches.

He’s bathed in warm, orange rays, the shadows of charcoal under his eyes where his lashes are reflected by the summer evening’s light, spidery and beautiful at once. He beams, an overjoyed flush colouring his cheeks.

And Harry’s beautiful.

Louis wants to kiss him.

As though he can hear his thoughts, Harry’s desire-filled green eyes fall to Louis’ lips.

A crushing sense of want and nervousness and bloody terror surges through Louis’ body.

He can’t even be arsed to finish the cigarette. He drops it carelessly to the floor, looking down to stamp on it. Harry’s foot does it for him, eyes glancing up at Louis in question, waiting a torturous beat before he begins slowly leaning in.

A lightly trembling, moist hand belonging to Harry clasps loosely at Louis’ hip, shifting up to his waist. His palm seers his skin when it settles there, making Louis jolt. His heart jolts. His eyelashes flicker. And then his heart is pounding, throat dry. Lips probably chapped and breath soaked in smoke and beer.

But Harry’s standing toe to toe with him now, having moved directly in front of him, focused, dreamlike.

Every feels slow, hazy, and the air floating around them smells like summer and first kisses.

He’s about to get his wish.

He looks at Harry, wordlessly leaning in closer, feeling something beat in his chest—not his heart, though that’s knocking at his ribs harder, steady like a drum beating—something he’s never felt before.

This is something new, something scary, in the best possible way.

A soft smile begins to bloom over Louis’ mouth, Harry’s lips immediately quirking as Louis’ do.

And then he’s hit with warm breath, a soft sigh against his fuzzy beer-infused tongue and Harry’s lips are finally touching his. Pressing softly, so softly against the beds of Louis’ lips. His eyes shut, his hands reaching out to pull Harry in by his waist, their stomachs brushing together as their lips begin to move.

And Louis’ horrifyingly nervous, feet in perilous likelihood of collapsing beneath his weight, his hands gripping Harry’s sides tighter as he kisses him, warm and slow, exploring Louis’ mouth at his own pace, making little whimpering noises that that render Louis dizzy and speechless and _god_ , he can barely stand, lost in the feeling of Harry’s tongue swirling with his own, breathing deeply through his nose as he tastes him.

This is so overwhelming. He needs to take a breath before his head is completely stuffed with cotton wool.

He pulls off to check in with Harry, check he’s okay, is as into this as Louis, who’s instantly chasing Louis’ mouth with a quiet whine. His eyes are closed and when he opens them, he’s staring intently at Louis’ mouth with glossy, dark eyes.

Guess he has his answer.

“Hey,” Louis whispers around a soft smile.

“I've wanted to do that for ages,” Harry admits gleefully, “like, as soon as I saw you, the day we moved in.”

Louis laughs. “Really? That’s cute," he coos. "I thought you hated me.”

Harry raises a dubious brow. “That’s rubbish. I was bloody infatuated with you but I didn’t know how to show it. You seemed so popular and cool and out of reach. I've had a crush on you for ages, Louis.”

“All the slightly creepy staring and the incessant blushing sorta gave it away, in hindsight.” Louis grins, tugging him closer, backing further into the red brick wall, heads covered by the hanging basket of colourful flowers on the corner of the roof.

Harry’s mirth-clouded eyes glance back up to meet Louis, flashing a gorgeous violet, giving away his obvious desire for him and Louis shivers with the knowledge. A thrill surges through Louis. _Magic_. Though, as if that wasn’t clear enough already, by the way his tongue was just enthusiastically down Louis’ throat.  

“Hi,” Harry breathes for no reason, grinning, eyes half-closed, and arms wrapped around Louis’ neck. “Kiss me more, please. I’ve been waiting a long time for this, you know.”

“Then we could not, would not, want to wait,” Louis chuckles airily and leans straight back down to snag Harry’s lips, hand holding onto his jaw, thumb digging into his chin and kisses him solidly against the wall of the pub.

Harry giggles against his mouth, “Did you just quote Phoebe from Friends?”

“I did,” Louis admits, proud. “Do you watch it?”

“I love it.”

“Then I say we’re a match, Harold.”

“I was hoping you’d think so,” Harry mumbles, eyes so soft as he sighs happily into Louis’ mouth and Louis’ heart sings, lets everything else around them dissolve into a hazy blur, the edges of his vision whiting out. “We could… even,” he gasps between kisses, “like… do this more often? What do you reckon?” he whispers lowly, breath catching in his throat.

“Mm,” Louis hums into Harry’s mouth, face splitting from the strength of his grin. “Yeah. Sounds wicked.”

“Wicked,” Harry whispers, pulling Louis closer by his shoulders and kissing him deeper.

His mouth is warm and _lax_  and so delightfully  _squishy_. They’re making the most obscene, obnoxious wet noises out here, but Louis can’t be arsed to care about that embarrassing fact, unable to care who might be looking their way now, because there’s just _so much_ of Harry’s lips, okay? So _much_ of them. They’re heavenly, silky cushions melding to Louis’ mouth and it’s absolutely addictive.

He wants to do this all day, all night long if Harry let him.

And they’re just taking, surrendering,  _taking_ , as though it’s so undeniably, dizzyingly  _meant to be_ —their _lips_ , slotting with each other’s seamlessly.

They taste like the remnants of the froth of a beer, of sugar and warm sheets and summer meadows and something else that Louis could readily describe as giddy, golden streams of happiness.

And he’s talking rubbish. Because he is. He’s  _happy_. And Harry seems happy. And Louis has no qualms in claiming this very thingꟷkissing Harry until their lips are sore, arms wrapped around each other and their bodies pressed as close as possibleꟷto be his favourite thing in the world, and he wouldn’t be lying even a bit.

Niall doesn't even ask them where they've been, grinning at their dishevelled, flushed faces like he's won a prize.

Louis silences him with a thwack to the head and swipes the beer out of his hands, settling down with a blissfully sated grin he tries to smother as he drinks, blushing when Harry's hands sneaks over his knee.

This is shaping up to be quite the evening, and Louis is fucked.

  

***

 

They get back home just gone ten.

They’re standing on the doorstep of Harry’s house, and Louis, well… he _wants._ And Harry seems just as equally into this, so… they’re kissing again. Proper snogging. Deeply. So deeply that it’s wet and Louis can taste him and it’s sending all sorts of aftershocks and sparks shooting, soaring through his veins, filling his cells, hands roaming underneath Harry’s t-shirt. And it’s mesmerising.

“This feels—this is—uh,” Harry murmurs almost inaudibly, “amazing.”

Louis shares the sentiment, biting lightly and dragging Harry’s bottom lip between his teeth. "I like you," he admits, smiling into another open-mouthed kiss.

"I like you, too." Harry squeezes his eyes shut, releases a little whine into Louis’ mouth which only spurs him on to kiss Harry harder, face probably so red and affected and, wow. Shit. This is everything. He can’t get enough. Bolts of excited energy pumping blood around his quivering body as Louis clutches at Harry’s shoulders, holds on with solid hands that slide through Harry’s curls, messing them up, gripping, pulling.

With a gasp, Harry knocks Louis’ back against the door, a soft groan escaping as his open mouth latches onto his once again, when suddenly, Louis’ falling backwards, losing his footing as a surge of light invades his vision.

Harry stumbles into him as they both flail about to keep upright, realising they’ve been caught snogging against the front door by Harry's aunt.

Brooke closes it behind them, arms crossed, staring at them both with a disapproving gaze. She’s in her earlier outfit but her feet are bare, her jacket off, and smelling distinctly of raspberry shower gel.

“Uh, hi, Aunt Brooke,” Harry beams, a little wobbly on his legs, tripping over the door mat as he wanders down the hall, grabbing onto Louis’ hand to tug him along with him, completely shameless despite the flush of bright pink on both cheeks. “We can have that chat now, if you like?” he says casually, tipsy from the few beers they had and drunk off Louis’ lips too, Louis hopes.

All Louis can manage now is an attempt to muffle his giddy snickers and full-out giggles, belly doing cartwheels. He feels high.

But Brooke’s face is stony. Louis’ smile starts to falter as he exchanges a confused glance with Harry.

“What’s the matter?” Louis pipes up, probably a bit too loud, his heart beating hard. “Never seen a couple of lads suck face before?”

Brooke swivels around on her heels, hand waving swiftly as the blinds all shut and every kitchen light comes on at once, abrupt and final.

Louis blinks.

The atmosphere harsh and seeping with a coldness.

“No. It’s not that at all, Believe me,” Brooke says, offence lacing her harsh tone. “We have to talk,” she states sternly, eyes flicking between the two of them. “Take a seat. Have some tea. Pot’s just done.” She gestures to a yellow tea pot and two mugs in front of the chairs on placing mats. A carton of milk on the table, too.

Sighing, she lifts herself up to sit on Harry’s kitchen worktop, legs crossed. She drums her black painted fingernails against the shiny grey surface.

“I didn’t realise we were running out of time this quickly,” Brooke says, apparently to herself. Aloof. “Should have known this was coming years ago. She knew last _week_ , for god's sake.”

She flicks a murky gaze toward Louis.

Louis returns it, defiant. He pours himself some tea, a deeply etched frown on his face. “You don’t like me, do you?”

Brooke says nothing, which serves to only make Louis more suspicious of her now obvious problem with him. He folds his arms like a sullen child, trying to out stare her. Because that's mature. Then, "I don't know you."

That alone sounds like a lie and Louis' deeply unsettled.

“What the hell’s going on? Why are you acting so weird?” Harry demands, voice catching. “This atmosphere is scaring me. _You’re_ scaring me, to be honest. I’ve never seen you like this,” he says, frowning, unable to disguise the flecks of distress in his tone. "Why are you angry?"

"I'm not angry," Brooke sighs, briefly closing her eyes. "I'm worried for you."

Harry swallows, blinking furiously.

“You really don’t have any sort of inkling of what this curse is, do you, Harry?” Brooke studies her nephew carefully, her eyes marred with doubt, and something else, something more… tense. Weighty. Foreboding. 

It makes Louis feel a bit sick. His headaches coming on again as the silence stretches on. The sentence hanging heavily betwixt them all, up for grabs, just there, teetering on the edge off a cliff before the drop. The information Harry has wanted since Louis met him that night apparently begrudgingly on the tip of Brooke’s tongue.

“No,” Harry drawls. “Mum refuses to tell me. You _know_ that.”

"But you don't have a clue? You never wondered?"

"Of course I have. But I don't _know_."

"Your mother," Brooke sighs deeply, rolling her eyes. "Always prefers to bury her head in the sand, my sister. You always deserved to know from an early age. _Needed_ to know, if you ask me. Lives are on the line. It didn’t make sense that she wouldn’t tell you. Especially now, and that you're... at the age you are.”

“You said that earlier, too. Why?” Harry asks, tone cautious. “What’s special about now?”

“She was stupid to think this wouldn’t happen already,” Brooke carries on angrily. "Emotions run higher when you get to this age." Her dark abysses for eyes only now starting to seem terrifying to Louis, underneath that quirky, carefree and cool exterior. Familiar, even. As though she should be wearing a band t-shirt or something. “As though she hasn’t already gone through this with your sister. It’s why Gemma ran off to France. She couldn’t stand the lying to you.”

“Gemma?” Harry raises his voice. “What’s going _on_?” he grits, face reddening with stress, anger.

“It’s the curse. Gemma was in danger of becoming its next victim. Or rather, the boy she was seeing at the time was. He was a witch, too. But in a way, that was worse. He was the wrong kind.”

“You’re not making any sense,” Louis says, the words crackling out his mouth. His hand encircles Harry’s wrist, noting the way Brooke’s eyes follow the gesture, her posture stiffening.

Harry stares, opens his mouth, then closes it again. “Victim?”

“Yes, H,” Brooke nods slowly, levelling him with a pitying look. “But she survived it. She was lucky. And… she took control of her fate before she… Before it was too late.”

Oh, great. So, it does entail death. Brilliant. Louis’ legs are starting to tremble under the table. Harry’s hand squeezes Louis’ upper thigh, soothing. Grounding.

“What is it?” Harry asks, voice resolute, features pulled into a determined grimace, bracing himself. “Gemma is fine. Physically. Emotionally… she hasn’t been the same. She’s distant now. Barely calls us anymore. Barely calls me.” Louis hears the hurt in his voice. It clenches his insides.

Louis has no idea what he expected this curse to be, only that Anne is terrified that it will affect Harry. And if that doesn’t also terrify Louis. His heart starts to beat furiously, a lump stuck in his throat, his chest tightening with growing fear. At the growing realisation of what's going on.

“The curse has existed for about three hundred years,” Brooke starts, her gaze focused on her open palm. “It’s lay dormant for a number of them, starting and restarting whenever it knows it can claim a life.” Brooke hops off the counter and stands, her arms folded closely to her chest.

Harry is attached to his aunt’s every word, eyes wide and worried. Louis sighs quietly.

“And about three hundred years ago, our ancestor, Isabel, fell in love with a mortal.” Brooke glances back at Louis, lets her gaze linger. Louis gulps. Shit.

Harry scoffs. “Oh, come on.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Right. Okay, let me guess, she couldn’t be with him because their families disapproved?" Harry says, tone devoid of humour. 

“It was a _she_ , actually. Isabel loved a woman.”

Harry’s breath catches. “Oh.”

“Her name was Clara,” Brooke continues. “And yes. Isabel’s family—they didn’t approve. At all. It was dangerous for the both of them. Being together.”

Harry’s eyes widen, cheeks reddening. “Oh,” he whispers again.

“They were madly in love, inseparable. Mostly everyone assumed they were like sisters, of course,” Brooke’s tone is wry, “so they could get away with spending as much time as they wanted to without raising suspicion.”

Louis stays still. Bile climbs up his throat. That familiar feeling of cold dread back again with a vengeance. "But?" he prompts. 

“But Clara was suddenly outcast, shunned by everyone in their village, the town. In the end, she was arrested. People started to come forward, claiming she was practising witchcraft and that she was summoning demons to kill them. Several children had died of cholera, which was because it was such an infectious disease. They weren’t aware how much of a pandemic it would become in another century. They blamed Clara instead, who had been tending, treating the children, caring for them.”

“That’s terrible,” Harry winces.

“What happened to her?” Louis speaks up, quiet. Harry must be concerned by Louis’ tone, moving his chair closer towards him and tugging on the hem of Louis’ t-shirt, leaving it there.

Brooke halts her story, eyeing the place where Harry is connected to Louis. She threads her hands through her hair, closing her eyes briefly.

When she opens them, they’re even darker than before.

“How long has this been going on?” she accuses suddenly, and that’s what it feels like to Louis. He has to fight not to cower away from her disapproval. It sounds accusatory. She seems _mad_ about it, lazily flicking a finger between them. Pointing. Judging. For some reason, Harry’s family members would really like Louis to eliminate any romantic possibility concerning Harry with Louis. And something else tells Louis, a gut feeling, that it has nothing to do with the fact that Louis is a boy, but more to do with the idea of Louis being _Louis_.

Not sure whether to feel offended, caught out, scared or what, Louis splutters, surprised when Harry’s brows merely twitch at the assumption. “No, we’re not—” Louis starts just as Harry says, “Why?” His tone is resolute, as though he's ready for an argument to break out. His face has hardened significantly. "If you're about to tell me I can't be with Louis because I'm a witch and he isn't, save it. I'm sick of this medieval rule in this place."

Brooke arches her own brows, slightly taken aback by Harry's curt tone.

“—um, official,” Louis finishes uselessly, unsure why his first instinct was to lie when he was kissing Harry like his life depended on it less than twenty minutes ago. He feels stuck, sweaty, his collar sticking to his shoulders.

“Still. It looked like you were _something_ when I opened the front door," Brooke says with a raised brow, "like it's going somewhere, at least?” 

Louis doesn’t miss the way Harry turns away from Brooke and peers at Louis with questioning eyes that are more than disappointed. His brows are pinched severely, downturned lips releasing a little sigh between them, but he doesn’t let go of Louis’ t-shirt, just clutches the fabric tighter, turning his attention back to Brooke.

"That's what you want, too, right?" Harry asks in a small voice.

Oh, jesus. Louis wasn't aware they were discussing this _now._

“Okay, we _might_ be a thing,” he admits begrudgingly, blushing.  

This isn't how he wanted it to go. God. He wanted to ask Harry out properly, not do this in front of Harry's aunt, where it feels tense and uncomfortable and everyone in the room is looking and feeling miserable. “It’s recent," he offers, feeling like he can't tell Brooke the whole truth about how deeply his feelings for Harry are already blossoming into something _more._

Harry looks agitated.

And Louis feels like a fish out of water. Guilty.

Because, what? Are they just like  _together_ now? Not that he doesn’t want that.  He does. Of _course_ he does. He’d be thrilled if Harry wants this to continue, but. There’s something about this conversation. Someone that’s making him uneasy. A cold sense of dread and anxiety seeps into his bones. It’s a sickening, familiar feeling. And one Louis does _not_ want right now.

“What does it matter how long or what we are? What does this have to do with Harry and the curse?”

“It has everything to do with Harry,” Brooke says sternly, her gaze meeting her nephew’s. “And the curse,” she says quietly, regretfully.

This is not filling Louis with hope.

“Alright. I need you to listen carefully to this next part because you're directly next in line from being in danger. If it’s activated. And I’m going to take a wild guess and say it already has been.” Throwing a glance at Louis, Brooke sighs, taking a seat at the table with them, eyeing the large bouquet of orange flowers in the centre, floral table mats set around it.

Harry shakes his head, confused.

“If you start... that’s basically the recipe to unleashing the curse's horror. And it will carry on, Harry."

"Start what? What is? Oh, for god’s sake,” Harry mutters, shaking his head in frustration, unimpressed with the dramatics. Louis agrees. “Just tell me what it is!  _Please_. I’m fed up of these cryptic statements.”

"I'm getting to it," Brooke replies, stare firm. “As you can imagine, when Clara was taken away, Isabel was distraught. Not least because her lover had been snatched from her, but she had tremendous guilt as it was actually _her_ who was the witch, not Clara.”

“What happened next?” Harry whispers.

“Isabel spent years searching for Clara, unsure if she had been killed or abducted or sent away by her family to be married off to a rich man who would just use her for an heir, because no one would tell her the truth. And then she discovered it was her own family that led to Clara being accused of witchcraft. They manipulated the parents of the children, grieving and vulnerable and gave them something to direct their rage and fear towards.”

“Isabel disowned them all. Refusing their explanation. She was enraged, devastated, her whole world had come crashing down. She was hellbent on making them pay for what they'd taken.”

“What was it?” Louis frowns in distaste. “What was their explanation?”

“They saw Clara as a threat to the discovery of the existence of witches, and willingly sacrificed Clara in Isabel’s place.”

“They _killed_ her for it?” Harry asks, appalled, shock appearing all over his face. “Her own family? Why would they do that? What harm was their relationship doing to them?”

“It was everything. They murdered Clara because she was a threat to their lineage. They were cruel, narrow-minded people. They craved power over everything else. Even over their own family. Their children. Out of revenge and grief, Isabel conjured up a curse and placed it on her bloodline, ensuring her family and thus her ancestors would suffer as she had in losing the person they loved."

Brooke pauses heavily. "If a witch fell in love, the person they loved were cursed to die.”

They both freeze.

Louis glances at Harry beside him. Harry’s eyes are wide, wild.

“But as the years went by, her own daughter fell in love and the boy died soon after they acknowledged it. A freak accident, everyone thought. Obviously, it wasn’t. It was like he was being chased by fate until it happened. Another life taken to feed the curse. Isabel then realised it was wrong, deeply regretted her actions and tried to reverse the spell, creating a ritual that would rebut it, but before she finished it, she died herself, leaving the curse to continue. Though as the centuries passed, the curse seemed to be weakening and several generations were skipped. Many of the lineage fell in love and found the curse wouldn’t take a life. They’d live out their lives until they were old and nature took them. Until recently.”

An awful silence starts to fill the room, making it suffocating. Louis’ heart is pounding at the implication. He looks over again at Harry.

His face is slack, pale and distressed.

Louis can only stare at him, an awful drop weighing down his stomach.

“Are you…” Harry shakes his head. “Are you saying this affects _me_? That if I fall in love with someone, they’ll die because I love them?”

Brooke levels him with a pitying look. “Yes, Harry.”

Harry scoffs, a humourless laugh filling the stale silence. “So, you're saying I can’t risk being close with anyone because I’ll end up getting them killed?” He starts to laugh louder, hysterical and nervous laughter, hands trembling. “That’s ridiculous! How can this seriously be what you’re telling me? This is just a story!" he waves. "It’s a myth! Surely—”

“Harry," Brooke says tiredly, pressing her fingers to her forehead, "I know this sounds like a joke, but you should know it’s the truth. This is magic and you know how far its dangers can take us. You could put someone in danger, anyone you grow too close to.” Brooke looks at Louis.

"Is this why Mum is so..."

Brooke sends him another sorry look. "Your mum tried to stop you dating early, took note of all your friends, made sure you only kept to your same group of witches. So you couldn't fall for an average human, wouldn't get close enough that'd you'd end up killing them. It would be hard to explain," she murmurs lowly.

Louis looks away.

Harry’s face twists in disbelief, in utter confusion. His eyes start to fill with tears.

“But how would it even happen?" he asks wretchedly. "Does it happen straight away? Would they just suddenly drop dead as soon as I said “I love you”, or is it like if they dodge it once, it keeps coming back until they’re gone? God, this sounds so stupid," he spits, voice catching wetly.

“I don’t know first-hand," Brooke replies, "but once a witch falls in love with a non-witch, it's too late. The other person is cursed. What’s even worse is if it's reciprocated by them.”

“What could be worse than that?” Louis says limply, and it’s like Harry is suddenly reminded Louis is in the room. The boy he shared a kiss with not long ago. Many kisses. Wonderful kisses. Kisses that were supposed to be the start of something. Now they can’t have that. Not unless the curse is broken sometime soon.

“If both people love each other, fall for each other at more or less the same time, then the witch is vulnerable to the curse as well as the mortal person they love.”

"If they love me back, we both die?" Harry's face twists with sadness, frustration. 

Fuck's sake.

Louis watches as Brooke sighs, taking hold of Harry’s hand.

“There are dangerous people out there, Harry. Witches who don’t want the curse lifted. They want to see suffering. Specific people to suffer. Out of revenge, cruelty, some kind of twisted, misguided loyalty, who knows what reason. And Jacob is one of them. It’s why he went after you. To hurt me. To hurt all of us.”

“Why?”

“Because I hurt him,” Brooke says darkly, rolling her eyes. “He’s an entitled, psychotic man. That’s why.”

Harry bows his head, his unshed tears slowly tipping past the beds of his eyes. "This is my fault. I let him... I let myself get roped into his games. And now look what I've done."

"No, Harry, it's not your fault. And we'll fix it."

"But you said yourself it will be difficult, complicated to figure out how to stop it?" He cries silently, fingers still grasping Louis' shirt.

"I’m so sorry, Harry,” Brooke says, softer now, sincere. “I will do everything I can to put a stop to this curse as soon as possible. With your help and your mother’s, perhaps even the coven's. We can all stop this together. Put an end to the suffering of so many generations in this family. Throw Jacob in hell where he belongs.”

“I’m gonna go outside, get some air,” Harry whispers after a long moment, releasing his hand from Brooke's grip.

Brooke lets him go, giving Louis a look of sympathy. "Louis..."

“I’m following him,” he tells her adamantly.

She lets him.

Outside, the air is cooler.

Harry is quietly lying on his side on top of the front of Louis’ van, arms folded underneath his cheek, his soft head of unruly waves and curls catching the silvery sheen of the moon.

Louis carefully positions himself next to him, attempting not to slide off or bump his legs into Harry’s. It’s a bit of an awkward feat, feet slipping against the smooth, orange-painted steel of the bonnet.

“Hey,” Louis whispers gently. “Alright?”

To his surprise, Harry immediately looks up, green eyes boring into Louis’, attention focused completely on him. A small smile full of longing dances along the edge of Harry’s bitten red lips. “Yeah,” he replies just as reverently. “I guess.”

It's a lie, but Louis lets it be.

"Yeah," he whispers back.

Louis isn’t sure why they’re practically whisperingꟷthey’re the only two people out here on this road in generalꟷbut it feels delicate, a tender fragility between them that neither boy wants to disturb. Or even acknowledge. Not tonight.

He nods, satisfied for now at least. Harry’s not crying anymore, and maybe if Louis stays quiet on the subject of what happened just now, about where this leaves them and their blossoming relationship, Harry might open up to Louis on his own terms. Might not shut him out straight away come morning.

Might not end this thing between them before it’s even had a chance to take flight.

"Stay here with me for a while?" Harry asks softly. 

“Okay," Louis replies, turning his gaze up toward the blackened night sky.

Louis mirrors Harry’s position on the bonnet and stretches out to lay down, arms cushioned beneath the side of his face, his heart racing so violently it almost hurts.

The stars are out and the little clouds that are visible are chalky grey, directly in their eyeline as they lay crowded and sprawled over the van. The stars like spotlights across the black canvas of the night.

And then Harry’s leg presses against Louis’, tangling their calves together. Louis tenses, but quickly relaxes into Harry’s touch, he can’t help but not. Not yet. Unsure when or if they’re ever allowed to touch again.

He lets it happen for now, however briefly.


	10. x.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, lovelies! Again, thanks so much to anyone keeping up with this WIP! (and it really is a Work In Progress with all the editing this fic is getting, so I totally understand waiting until it's completed.) Anyway, lots to string together in the remaining chapters xx (I hope this reads coherently, by the way. My brain is fried. It's feeling like this word count is gonna be a humdinger. Whew.)

 

Thud.

The beanbag ball bounces back into Louis’ hand, palm closed around it, his arms bent and raised beside his head. A large, exaggerated yawn slips past his otherwise tightly pressed mouth, and he lazily drops the ball to the floor, slumping back into the sofa cushions. Miserable. Chin touching his chest.

It’s Sunday night and being home alone isn’t as nearly as great as he once thought, (granted, he’s twenty, not eleven) but without Harry here, like he has been most nights for the past week, Louis is, for the first time, very aware that he’s on his own. And mind-numbingly bored.

And all while holding a glass of whiskey in his other hand, like he’s some middle-aged, cigar-smoking aristocrat having an existential crisis.

He doesn’t even like whiskey. So why is he drinking whiskey of all things? Well, it was all the alcohol that was left in the low kitchen cupboard of his mum’s that he fancied, and Louis feels like acting a bit sorry for himself tonight. (It’s just a drop, anyway, his mum won’t notice. Besides, it burns and therefore pretty much tastes like the devil. If Louis knew what the devil tasted like.)

(Whiskey tastes like the devil, apparently.)

Yeah, he’s decided to sulk.

Because Harry’s clearly avoiding him.

Louis’ ventured into the kitchen several times and each time Louis’ shot a subtle glance through the glass roof of the conservatory, Harry’s bedroom curtains have been closed.

They’re barely ever closed.

He's been set on the disconcerting fact that Harry hasn’t come to knock on Louis’ door all day. It’s gone ten at night now and he hasn’t heard a peep from Harry since they quietly went back inside their own houses for the night, after lying on Louis’ van with their legs pressed together in silence for what felt like hours.

Louis tried to push away the pang of hurt when Harry left without much of a goodbye, just a simple, “I’m gonna go back inside,” flashing him an unconvincing grimace masquerading as a smile, obviously trying for one that didn’t say, _we pretty much can’t go out now because we might die. Sorry about that._

Not feeling very optimistic about the next morning, Louis trudged inside, a bit shell-shocked from the evening’s events, the rollercoaster chart of emotions, bewildered over the unbelievable idea that unless a _curse,_ of all things, was lifted, he’d never be able to start a relationship with Harry.

He’d never be allowed to fall for Harry. Would he ever even be able to kiss Harry again?

He already aches to kiss him again, to touch his cheeks and drown himself in the warm, euphoric embrace of Harry’s mouth, listen to his frustratingly slow rambling, make him laugh until his stomach is hurting.

But it seems like this thing with Harry was already over until further notice. Unless he valued his life, that is. And, well. He kinda does.

So. Safe to say everything’s fucked. 

 _Magic_ fucking sucks.

And the tiny flame of hope in his chest that Harry would knock and Louis would let him in and they’d snog on this very sofa—the one that was already slowly disintegrating—is officially snuffed out.

So, yeah. An extreme bout of pining has followed, and Louis’ maybe a little bit, maybe a lot… heartbroken, staring blankly with half-squinted eyes at some gardening makeover programme and he honestly needs someone to slap him out of this sluggish, immovable state. He’s not even high, for fuck’s sake.

Though, he did manage to get off his arse long enough to give the house a tidy, as to not render himself completely useless, and seeing as Mum and Amy are back late Tuesday afternoon from Mallorca, he should really make use of this remaining time and not give her a reason to refuse him responsibility of the house again.

So, he’s been tidying up a bit, giving it a Spring clean, and he should, after spending the night awake, moping and analysing what Harry staying away means. (And yes, Louis could easily go and knock himself but with Brooke and Anne there, maybe it’s best Louis doesn’t and waits for Harry’s cue.)

He ended up making a mess by finishing off a four-pack and mindlessly munching on several big packets of half-eaten crisps, (the cheap and fancy ones) the greasy, empty ripped packets and crumbs scattered all over the sofa and on the floor. Along with quite a few tissues. And maybe a sprinkling of crushed popcorn that he sat on accidentally halfway through _Casper_ when he had a fitful thirty-minute interval of sleep, only to wake up at the part alive and human Casper whispers to Kat, “ _Can I keep you_?”

(He needed a tissue, then. His “cry face” is something he’s regularly cooed over by Niall when they’re having their late-night weed chats on Louis’ bedroom floor.)

He raided his mum’s VHS collection in the drawer under the TV and ended up watching one film after the other: _My Girl, Casper_ and _Sleepless in Seattle_ —that one really did him in when he heard the word, “It was like… _magic_.” He sobbed. Loudly. (Hence the _ton_ of used tissues.) He doesn’t even know what he’s crying for. He’s been inexplicably struck with a hurricane of sadness orbiting his lungs and heart, the looming feeling that he’s forgetting something coming back with a vengeance, despite not having had any more nightmares since Anne gave him that sleeping draught.

Which he’s nearly out of in a few days. Brilliant. He either plucks up the courage to ask Anne for another batch or he continues to suffer through these fucking nightmares that may or may not be visions of the past and future, and may even include Harry—which.

Actually, would make sense with this curse business. Maybe his dreams were trying to tell him something—that incoming doom is on its fucking way, no doubt. Dark fairy-tale style, apparently.

So. Whoopee.

Much to be excited about.

Letting out a lazy groan, he flops over to the other side of the sofa and picks up the phone like it’s the heaviest thing he’s ever tried to lift in the world, and punches in Niall’s landline number. He puts the orange phone to his ear and waits as the dial tone starts.

Niall’s mum picks up and immediately shouts for Niall in her shrill Irish accent when Louis says hi. She knows the drill. Sweet woman, when she’s not yelling in that terrifying tone of hers.

He plays with the cord, winding it round his finger as he waits for Niall’s elephant footsteps to come bounding down the stairs in the background.

“What’s up, Tommo?” Niall answers with a yawn. “Remembered I exist now you haven’t got Harry’s tongue down your throat to keep you occupied for five minutes?”

Louis sighs forlornly, dramatically, as exaggeratedly as he can muster down the line, fiddling with the cord.

“Can you come over?” he asks, making sure his voice sounds particularly pitiful and wretched.

“You’ve not been dumped already?” Niall asks, and Louis can practically hear his eyebrows shoot up through the receiver.

“How do you know _I_ didn’t dump him?” Louis shoots back, indignant.

Niall scoffs down the line.

“I dumped Finn!”

“So, there _was_ a dumping? Already?” A pause. “I like Harry. He’s a nice lad.” Another pause. “What have you done to him?”

“Oi what?” Louis frowns. The reason sitting atop his dry tongue, _Oh, you know, become a danger to his life, or my life, really, because he’s actually a witch with a centuries’ old curse hanging above his head, and I’m a mere mortal who could die if I kiss him again._

But of course, he can’t say anything of the sort, can he? Then Niall really would think he was high.

“No," Louis sighs, "I haven't dumped him. We're not—we're not really even properly together yet or anything. I’ve been hanging out with Harry for a week, Niall. Eight days. Well. No, not even that. Because I haven’t seen him the entire day, today, Niall. He’s… blanking me. And he bloody lives next door. I can hear him shuffling around in his room, but he’s shut his curtains so I can’t see him from the kitchen. I mean, what’s that about? All _day_ , Niall.”

There’s a deafening stretch of unbothered silence.

“You’re off on one because he hasn’t been round to see you today?” Niall’s tone is unmoved.

Louis sniffs. “Uh, yes?”

“Did _you_ knock for him?”

“No…”

“How do you know he wasn’t waiting for you to knock first?”

“Because!”

“Because what?”

“We kissed, Niall. For ages. We snogged for ages and now he’s ignoring me?” Louis leaves out the part that Harry probably thinks if he gets any closer to Louis, they’re going to fall in love and inconveniently die. Because, you know. Mood killer and all. Quite literally. Louis’ not a fan of the story of _Romeo & Juliet._

“Go and knock for him, you idiot.” Louis can actually hear his eyeroll from here.

“Come over, please?” he whines one more time.

Niall scoffs. “Leave off. I’m going to bed.”

“It’s only ten.”

“Then maybe Harry will still come to see you,” Niall counters. “The night is young.”

“He won’t,” Louis mumbles, pressing the rubber of the phone cord between his fingertips.

“Lou, I need my beauty sleep. And it’s good for the brain. Try it.”

“I can’t,” Louis bites. Sleeping is a sore subject, considering all the shit he dreams of. Niall doesn’t know that either, though. He doesn’t know a lot of things now.

The only person who knows all this is Harry.

He misses Harry.

It’s been a day and Louis is so completely fucked. Because he might not be allowed to miss him now.

Or maybe Louis’ just taking all this wrong the way, got the wrong end of the stick.

Harry could easily, innocently be busy with the curse. They could be doing witchy stuff, making the spell, stirring and grounding odd shit together in a heated cauldron while drinking tequila and chanting from the Grimoire, who knows. Perhaps Harry just needed some time to process this. He could come by tomorrow and they’ll talk it out and Louis can stop worrying.

Yeah. That would be good.

Could be true, too.

“Bed, Lou.”

“Okay,” Louis relents. “Bye.”

“Get your man.”

“Shut up.”

He hangs up, switches the TV off, curls into the sofa and tries to sleep.

He dreams of anxious, green eyes.

 

***

 

As half-expected, Harry doesn’t knock for Louis on Monday, and it sends his nerves flying erratically, driving himself half-mad again with the reasons why Harry’s keeping his distance so suddenly and without a word since they last saw one another.

And then there was the weird encounter at the door earlier on in the evening.

Louis had just packed away his Chinese takeaway, on his way back to his spot in front of the living room TV when there was a loud knock on the front door.

Thinking it was Harry—finally come to kiss his face off and tell him the curse had been dealt with and that they could go back to the fledgling plan that were tentatively beginning to unravel by making what they had going on official—he almost tripped over the hallway rug to answer the door in his mad dash, adrenaline and excitement rushing through his veins.

Only it wasn’t Harry at the door. It was someone completely unknown to Louis.

“Hello,” the stranger said instantly upon Louis wrenching the door open, his face likely holding undisguised disappointment and a bit of anger that it wasn’t who he wanted it to be.

A man stood on Louis’ doorstep. Dressed in a brown suede jacket and dark trousers and shirt. His hair was short and russet coloured, seemingly longer at his temples and at the back.

Louis felt cold all over.

The stranger stared at Louis, his dark eyes passing all over Louis’ face, raking up and down his body uncomfortably. It felt beyond creepy and invasive. His fingers itched to slam the door his face but a knot in his stomach told him this guy wouldn’t get lost easily.

He wanted something.

“Hi?” Louis said, unimpressed. “Can I help you—or?”

“You might do,” the stranger said, "It’s Louis. Isn’t it?”

His heart-rate immediately spiked, alarm bells ringing. “Who wants to know?” he ground out, keeping an equally tight smile in place.

The man smiled. Too saccharine. Too much teeth. His eyes flashed with a hint of irritation underneath it.

“I wonder if you could help me?”

Louis’ smile slipped, instead gazing at the man head on, giving him a defiant lift of his chin. "Not sure I could."

The man chuckled deeply. “You’re wary of me. That’s understandable. But, you see… I’m looking for someone and they’re—well—dangerous.”

“What do you mean? Someone’s on the loose?”

“They know someone I’m inclined to believe you’ve become friendly with.”

“Are you spying on me?” Louis said slowly, levelling him with a hard look. “Look, who are you? I’ll call the police if you don’t leave in the next five seconds.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” the man threatened, sickly smile oozing off his face, revealing a more sinister expression, almost wild, his eyes darkening inexplicably.

And his voice—it was only now Louis realised it sounded familiar.

He’d heard it before. But not consciously.

His dreams.

_"No! Give him to me."_

_Running. Branches. Snow. Smoke. Fire. He gripped his hand. A second red smeared hand. A cliff’s edge._

_"Give him to me!"_

“Something wrong?” the man asked. The saccharine smile back in place.

Louis felt sick.

“Who are you looking for? What do they look like?”

The man hummed, sniggering. “Well. _She_ has dark hair, eyes dark brown, almost black. Odd sense of fashion,” he raised his thick brows, “big mouth—” he paused, smirking. Something ugly slithered through Louis’ insides. He wanted to punch his fucking mouth, “—she’d vouch for that.”

“A name?” Louis said coldly.

The man considered Louis a moment. It was unnerving.

“Anytime today?” Louis quipped.

The man snorted.

“Brooke. Twist.”

Louis kept his face carefully blank. “I’ll be sure to look out for you,” he said with finality.

“Please do,” the man replied. “I may be back this way. If there’s any new sightings of her.”

“Right,” Louis said tightly. “Can I get your name?”

“Uh. No. Let’s not. For now.” The man grinned again, sharp. “Thank you, you’ve been very helpful.”

Hardly. Louis hadn’t told him anything.

It was just as the man turned around and Louis began to close the door that he halted his movement.

“Wait! How do you know my—” But the man had gone.

Louis gulped around his dry throat, unsure about what to do now.

 

***

 

When Louis woke up the next day at almost noon, having half-forgotten about the weirdo that had turned up at his door out of nowhere and cryptically, creepily asked about Brooke’s whereabouts, he had a pounding headache.

He hadn’t had any nightmares again since he’d been taking Anne’s sleeping potion, but he felt wretched and like he hasn’t slept at all.

But he didn’t have long to dwell or wallow about that detail. Not when his mum rang the landline, telling him they’d be home no later than three that pleasant Tuesday afternoon.

And he still hadn’t seen Harry. He needed to mention that some strange bloke had turned up and known Louis’ name.

It made his stomach churn horribly. A tightness behind his ribs somehow prompting his temples to throb again. As though he sensed danger or something.

It was stupid. It sounded stupid to his own ears, but.

What if it wasn’t?

What if Louis had been experiencing premonitions? What if he was actually psychic? Louis made a choked sound, shook the absurdity thought off with a laugh. A nervous laugh. Doubt niggling at him. And hopped into the shower, letting the cold water numb his senses until his teeth started to chatter.

 

***

 

Harry still hasn’t knocked by the time his mum and Amy come home, nor has Louis gone next door either, putting himself in a foul mood because he can’t make himself be the first one to cave and just bloody go over there to find out what’s happening.

And if he’s still got a sour face on when Mum arrives, well. Her questions will be never-ending. He’s not ready for that, or to where it might lead.

So, the second his family pulls up in their cab on the driveway, he plasters on a happy grin (and he _is_ happy, he’s missed them both more than he thought he would) and lifts Amy up into the air, her arms winding round his neck, burying a hand in her sun-kissed hair as he squeezes her tight, tightening his hold when she starts wriggling in his arms (the initial thrill of seeing her big brother clearly already wearing off), struck with the need to make sure Amy knows how much her older brother loves her.

“You miss me, gremlin?” Louis grins brightly as he pulls back, ignoring the pang in his chest, unable to stop the softness of his voice increase as Amy beams up at him.

“No, it was wonderful!” she announces, giggling when Louis attacks her armpits with tickles. 

“That’s charming, that is. Very nice,” he pretends to growl through his own laughter. “I’ll just disappear, shall I? Since you won’t miss me. I’ll just vanish in a puff of smoke—”

“No,” Amy yelps, flinging herself back at him and grabbing hold of his legs.

“Oh, so you do love me really?” Louis smiles, clutching her shoulder with slightly furrowed brows.

“Yes,” Amy mumbles, voice muffled in Louis’ jeaned thigh. He chuckles, ruffling her feathery golden hair. Amy holds on tighter, hiding her face from him.

Louis frowns, pausing his hand.

“Hiya, love!” his mum then calls. She sees off the cab driver, grinning as she walks towards him, sporting a glowing tan, and armed with a long hug just for Louis, her handbag loosely draped over her shoulder and plonking her suitcase at her white sandal clad feet. “No parties or mischief while I was gone?” she asks with squinted eyes and a smirk when she pulls back.

“Yes, several. Absolute mayhem. Carnage.”

His mum titters, looks down at Louis’ legs. “Amy, what _are_ you doing down there?”

Amy makes several more muffled noises.

“Ames?” Louis prods, still frowning. “What’s got you all soppy? Did you really miss me that much?”

He shares a puzzled glance with his mum and then Amy finally lifts her head up, a pout emerging on her face before dashing into the Styles’ front garden and then scuttling down their alley at the side of the house. Well. That’s the first time he’s actually witnessed Amy making secret trips to their garden. Louis sighs.

“Uh, Amy?” his mum calls. “Get back here!”

“It’s fine, Mum. Harry said she does this a lot. Anne’s rather fond of her, apparently.”

“Oh, right,” she frowns. Well, I hope she’s not causing any—hang on—” His mum turns to him, giving him a curious look. “Did you say _Harry_?”

Louis instantly flushes, cursing the butterflies having a party in there. _Cursing_. Ha.

“Have you two been getting to know each other while we’ve been away?” She asks, starting to smile. She doesn't seem surprised either, placing a hand on her hip. “I’ve been saying to Anne what a pair of mates you’d make.

“Well—” Louis fiddles with his fringe, not knowing how to explain what is or isn’t happening between him and Harry now.

“Oh, I’m really pleased, love,” his mum continues anyway, “I had a feeling you two might get on well. It’s about time,” she smiles as she hefts her bag up. “Oh—but I hope Amy doesn’t bother them too much? Wonder why Anne didn’t mention it,” she says, brows furrowing.

“No, Mum, Amy’s been good. Anne’s glad to have her,” Louis pauses, shoots a glance towards Harry’s bedroom window. He ignores his mum’s gaze boring into the side of his face. He looks back at her, plastering on a nonchalant smile. “If not, I’m sure Amy knows when she’s being a pain.”

“Oh, yeah. She knows alright.” She rolls her eyes fondly.

Louis laughs, picking up his mum’s suitcase and pretends he doesn’t see the twitch of the net curtains in Harry’s window. His smile almost slips. “Did you have a nice time?” he asks, voice perky. He steps over the threshold into the house, resists looking over his shoulder.

“We had a wonderful time, thank you! The weather was amazing, but then, it’s not still bad here,” she chuckles.

“Humid as anything, still. Yep.”

“I was a bit sad to be coming back already,” his mum gushes, closing the door behind them, “but of course I missed my favourite boy,” she coos, pinching his cheek lightly. Kissing it for good measure.

Louis grins, shying away as he plonks down the suitcase in the kitchen. “Of course,” he says, chin lifted. “Amy have a good time?”

“She had a great time, yeah. She missed you but she managed to keep occupied. We bought her one of those inflatable bananas.”

She laughs and Louis giggles too.

“Bet she loved that.”

“God, couldn’t get her out,” she pauses, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes as she takes off her bag, “of that pool. She’d be in there for hours with Auntie Jane. You know she’s been asking for a pool to put out in the garden.”

“Oh, lovely. She’ll be wanting to dunk me head in there, no doubt.”

“Obviously.” His mum laughs, opening the fridge and gasping.

“What?” Louis frowns.

“You stocked up the fridge!” She walks over to him and hugs him again. Louis grins against her shoulder. “My baby is growing up,” she smiles, smiling into his hair.

“It was either I go shopping or starve, Mum,” Louis laughs. He checks the clock on the wall. It’s just gone four. “Oh, but we are nearly out of milk. Been drinking my weight in tea and—”

“I hope you’ve been eating more than just crisps and chips, Louis,” his mum cuts in, frowns.

“—and the odd _apple_.” (Cider.) “Don’t worry, Mum. I’m keeping the scurvy at bay.”

She bursts into laughter, shaking her head as she gives him a playful little shove. Louis grins, light and easy. Probably for the first time in two days. How woeful. “Alright, see you in a bit, son. I’m just gonna check on Anne next door. Pray Amy hasn’t broken anything,” she sighs.

Louis hums, stiffening. “’kay.”

She uses the kitchen back door and makes her way out to their garden, presumably to see if she can catch Amy in the act—snooping around Anne’s herbs.

He steps outside the front door when Harry’s front door opens a beat after. The person who emerges from the doorstep isn’t Harry though—it’s the last person he’d probably expect to see coming out of Harry’s house.

It’s Anna.

Hayley’s best friend and maybe girlfriend, and Louis’ more inclined to believe the latter now.

Anna pauses, shuts the door and settles a surprised, slightly warmer gaze than usual on Louis. Weird. Louis watches as she steps onto the driveway, the sun catching on her silver, loose tracksuit bottoms. She’s wearing a tight-fitted white crop top, her red hair scraped into a high ponytail as she grips onto an orange ice lolly.

And she’s half-smiling. In a way that isn’t completely drenched in disdain and aimed right at Louis. She seems even mildly pleased to see him.

Which might even be weirder than knowing magic is real.

Louis’ brows furrow as he takes her in, staring back at him with curious eyes.

“How do you know Harry?” he asks after a long moment, realising the suspicion and probably jealousy is evident in his voice, failing at keeping the demanding tone low-key.

Anna smirks, takes a long, sloppy lick of the top of her lolly. Louis makes a face, resists making a comment. Must be growth.

“No need to be jealous, Lou.”

“I’m not,” Louis instantly retorts.

“You can relax,” she says, tone mild, folding one of her arms against her stomach as she slurps on the newly made layer of ice cream underneath the orange outer layer of her lolly, “it’s fine. Anne and Harry have told me about you, that you know everything.” There’s a lot of emphasis on _everything,_ Louis notes with interest. Her voice weighty.

“Know what?”

Anna tilts her head wryly. “You _know_ what.”

“Not sure I do,” Louis says, his stance standoffish, widening his legs. He doesn’t trust Anna. No way. Unless her eyes flash purple again, he’ll believe she’s part of this too. That Anna is also a witch. Because how many people in Huddersfield grow the same kind of herbs as Anne and Anna’s mother?

Too many coincidences, and Louis doesn’t believe in those anymore. Not now that he knows that magic and witches and curses exist.

And as if Anna can read Louis’ mind, her eyes flash a shimmering purple. Like that day in the park, what seems like years ago.

“Louis. They told me you know we’re,” her eyes flash again, “witches,” she whispers around a toothy smile.

Louis rolls his eyes. “So you are too.” He tightens his arms around his middle. “Can’t say I’m shocked.”

“You’re funny, Louis,” Anna chuckles as a car speeds past them on the road. Birds chirp. The sun sears.

And Louis is confused.

“Why are _you_ in there with them, though? You just all hang around in a pack?”

“We’re in the same coven,” Anna answers with another slurp around her lolly.

“Right.”

“Though now that you’re here, actually—” Anna swerves out of the way of a particularly energetic bee, jerking her head slightly in a deliberate movement.

The bee is gone.

“Did you just—”

“It’s fine,” Anna insists. “I just redirected it halfway down the road and far away from me instead. Probably got high off my hairspray,” she says in a bored tone.

“Or the ice cream.”

“Now, where was I?” she squints. “Ah, yeah,” she takes another lick, “let’s have a chat? You like pastries? Pancakes?”

“Er… yeah?” Louis replies, mildly bewildered.

 “Let’s go, then,” Anna shrugs, already walking to the edge of the driveway.

“Where?” Louis’ feet are apparently following.

“The café. Brenda's.”

“For?”

“To talk and eat a pastry. Stop asking stupid questions. You can ask all the stupid questions you want when we’re there.”

“But why would we go and eat a pastry together?”

“Because I know you’ve got questions. I’d say Harry hasn’t been too accommodating with answering your current ones about the situation right now.”

Louis eyes her closely, weighing up his options. He does want to know what she knows. And he really should tell her about the man who visited him last night. She might know something that could help. Maybe use a hex for Louis, get rid of the creep in case he really does come back. He could ask her about his dreams, too.

That’s settled then.

“Fine,” he sighs. “There are some things I want to ask you and that I think you could probably do with knowing.”

“Great,” Anna chirps, bouncing on the spot and handing Louis her used lolly stick. “I’m starving.”

 

***

 

"I'm disturbed."

"Oh, I _know_ ," Anna says, eyes widening.

"No. At this. This," Louis gestures between them, "situation. It's weird."

"Why's that?" 

Louis stares, frowning at the red-headed girl sitting opposite him, shoulders loose, completely unaffected by eating with Louis, of all people. 

“I thought you hated me,” Louis says, wondering why she’s acting as though they haven’t been hostile around each other since Hayley and her made friends.

They eat their pancakes, the strong aroma of coffee beans and the sweet smell of lemons wafting through the air, lattes sat steaming beside their plates in a café owned by Anna’s auntie apparently—who is also, a witch.

Which is one thing that’s been thoroughly established.

Anna and her family are witches and part of the same coven that houses some of Harry’s relatives. They work together to raise the energy needed for practising their magic and if there’s a difficult, more powerful than usual spell that needs casting, reversing, tweaking, then the coven is there to help.

Like in this case with the curse on Harry’s lineage.

They’re all a tightly knit crew, it seems.

“Bit strong.” Anna raises an eyebrow, sipping on her coffee.

“No, it’s not,” Louis scoffs. “You’ve always been annoyed by me. Admit it. You were jealous of me because of Hayley.”

“Yeah, well… That was before,” Anna shrugs, tone vague.

Louis’ ears perk up. He sits up in his chair, leaning in over the table. “Before what?”

“Eat your pancakes, Louis,” Anna instructs, rolling her eyes as she chews on a strawberry.

Louis eyes the other occupants of the café, face set in a permanent squint as he stares at each face suspiciously. No one looks that interesting, though. Minding their own business as they take sips of coffee, or scribble things down in notebooks, or sit engrossed in the pages of a book.

With a small sigh, he settles his attention on the café itself—its walls are made of red brick, russet coloured tables and chairs scattered across the room’s space, the counter decorated in fairy lights and trinkets amongst the baked goods and cakes visible through the glass.

“So. We gonna talk about why we’re both here? Shall I start? Or you?”

Anna stops eating and exhales tiredly, wiping her hands on a napkin before she runs a quick hand over her scalp.

“Harry’s not ignoring you. There’s things to figure out before he’s allowed to see you again.”

She looks at Louis like that’s enough of an explanation. It bloody well isn’t.

“I need more than that. What’s really going on? We’ve only been sort of seeing each other for a matter of days so it's not like we’re not in love. I’m not at risk of dying,” he lowers his voice, “or whatever. And neither is he? So what?”

Anna’s eyes flicker, watching Louis closely. "You suffer through bad dreams regularly, yeah?"

“Yes,” Louis answers, glad she brought this up first.

“And sometimes they’re nightmares, too? Always the same series of images and settings?”

“Yeah,” Louis nods, shifting in his seat and averts his gaze. Uncomfortable.

When he glances back up, it’s to see Anna levelling Louis with the most sympathetic look he’s ever been on the receiving end of from her.

“I’m assuming Anne told you about the roses and the woods? And the, um,” he whispers, "blood, yeah?”

Anna hums. Louis will take that as a yes. “Harry had a bit of a meltdown over it.”

“What?” Louis’ heart stutters, thuds more quickly. “When? Is he okay?”

“Fine,” Anna shakes her head and puts her fork down. “Has anything changed in them recently? Have things been said that are different? Stranger than usual? Do you see anyone else in these dreams?” She pelts questions at him, one after the other without so much as a breath.

“Do you think that’s what they are? _Dreams_?” Louis counters. “Or could they be things that have happened in real-life? Like,” he sighs, disbelieving, “like… things that are still going to happen? Just in the future?” He stares at his plate, swirls his fork around the remainder of his pancakes.

“Personally?” Anna cuts up another piece of her pancake, drizzling some chocolate sauce over the top. As if they were merely talking about a film. “I think you are seeing visions, yeah. And that’s interesting to me because you’re not, as far as we’re aware, special.”

“Oh, cheers.”

“No, I mean. You’re not a witch?” A beat. “Are you?”

“As far as I know, no,” Louis chuckles. Genuinely. “I’m not. I have no magical powers whatsoever. Apart from knowing how to stop Niall from snoring. That’s about it.”

“Louis,” Anna says, in a warning tone. “I think what you’re dreaming of—it’s connected to Harry. You know he’s suffered with nightmares since he was a kid, too, yeah? They stopped for a while—until he got here.” She gives Louis a meaningful look.

“And that’s… bad?” Louis swallows, swigs some of his now tepid coffee, not wanting to show how much this is scaring him, that this curse… That’s it’s starting to sink in, that it really is real and that fate has already been written or some shit. “What am I really? You sure I’m not some kind of psychic?”

Anna doesn’t shut the idea down. So, naturally Louis is immediately concerned.

“Well. Fuck.” A laugh comes stuttering out of him. “You know my dreams—they’re no picnic, I’ll tell you that for free."

Pressing her lips together, Anna merely hums. Plops another strawberry on her tongue.

He blinks at Anna with wide, incredulous eyes. “Is that it? No reassurances? Anything else?” he says, a little hysterically, breath caught in his throat.

He turns to the counter, lifting his hand.

“Hi? Sorry,” he smiles, “but do you think we could get some tap water over here, please?”

The lady behind the counter, her lips painted in dark lipstick and her hair tied in tight plaits, nods. She comes over quickly, sharing a quick glance with Anna, who makes no move to hide her exasperated expression.

"Cheers." Louis gulps down the water.

“Maybe some of what you see are memories, or warnings, like the roses, for example. See, they’re _lavender_. The colour usually has connotations of deep affection and love—at first sight.” She clears her throat. “And… well. That’s kind of a bad thing right now, Louis. You know that, right? Considering the situation we’re in.” Her tone is wry, but serious.

Louis’ heartbeat picks up, already too focused on ‘ _love at first sight’_.

God.

“Harry’s in them, too, you know,” he admits finally. “My dreams. I think it’s him. The other person.”

He _knows_ it, in fact. He thinks he’s known for a while now. Louis knows those green eyes, the hand he’s holding, the person he’s calling for—it’s always been Harry.

Louis isn’t sure just how terrified he’s supposed to be.

“Yeah. I thought so,” Anna says tightly.

“As did Anne and Brooke, I suppose?”

She nods.

“Makes sense. Why they want me away from him, I mean.” Louis exhales heavily, slumping backwards in his chair. “Oh, god,” he groans, wiping his face with his hands. “Okay, so the woods?” He clears his throat. “I’m running through them with someone—which is Harry—” he says reluctantly, “and we’re being chased? Do you think that’s a vision?”

“I think that’s an event yet to happen, yeah.” She pauses, a mildly apologetic look passing over her clear skin. “Not to scare you or anything.”

“No, sure. I’m fine,” Louis sings, over-enthusiastically pasting on a fake smile that he instantly drops. “This is all fine. I’m not scared shitless at all. Why would I be?”

Anna smirks. But it’s small. “Yeah.” Her voice is laced with sympathy once more. “Why would you be. Look, Louis,” she starts, seemingly choosing her words carefully. “There could—”

“Wait,” Louis interrupts. “There’s—something else.”

Anna sighs, like she expected it. “There’s _more_?” she gasps sarcastically.

“Some creepy guy turned up at my house last night.”

Eyes widening, Anna sits up instantly, all traces of mildly disgruntled amusement wiped off her face. “What do you mean? You don’t know him?”

“Never seen him before. But he—fuck. He knew my name?” Louis winces. “How could he know that?”

“What did he want?” Anna asks, more urgently.

“He wanted to know where Brooke was.”

Picking up her fork like Louis didn’t just speak, Anna begins to shovel what’s left of her pancakes into her mouth, her cheeks filling out and pointedly not looking at Louis.

“Uh? Care to share your thoughts?” Louis lifts an expectant brow.

She puts her fork down, plate clean.

“Jacob Carter. You’ve heard of him, right? From Harry? His ex-mentor. Kind of,” she shrugs a shoulder, grimacing. “The man is basically responsible for the curse staying active.”

“He manipulated Harry into helping him from what I hear.”

“He did.” Anna shifts, turns around to look out of the window to their left. “He knows about you. How close you’ve gotten to Harry.”

“What?” Louis frowns deeply, panic starting to wind its cogs.

“Brooke realised he’s been following the two of you, so she's been keeping tabs on you. Ever since you went to her house and Harry found her note and all the evidence of one of Jacob's summoned demons."

Yeah, Louis would rather forget that bloody incident Harry had told him about.

“He sent a message to Brooke two days ago. Threatening Harry, that he’d hurt him through others if he couldn’t get to Harry himself, let the curse play out.”

“He threatened Harry?” Louis seethes, alert, fists clenching atop the table.

“And you, too," Anna says, brows knitted. "So we all agreed—we think it's best you stay away from Harry. He’s already got himself into a state. He has—problems. With controlling his magic. It’s tied with our emotions—our abilities. Harry’s an emotional lad,” she gestures.

“Yeah. Anne’s already told me this," Louis frowns.

“We think you’re too much of a distraction." Anna says, tone awkward. "Sorry, Louis, but the two of you together, it could put more than Harry's lineage in danger.”

Louis shakes his head, confused. Because how exactly to they fit into everyone else's safety? The curse can't affect them. Not yet. She's wrong.

“Unintentionally, obviously,” she corrects, sending him a tired look. “So for everyone’s sake, until this mess is sorted and we figure out to counteract this bloody thing, you can't see Harry."

"Can't," Louis echoes. His stomach feels heavy. "Not until the curse and Jacob are dealt with?"

Anna stares at him intently, eyes marred with uncertainty. "It's too risky. And you'd face Anne's wrath if anything went wrong and something happened to Harry, so. Trust me. You wanna lay low for a while."

How he's meant to do that, he has no idea.

Anna breathes out, presses her lips together. “Look, I know it’s weird coming from me, but I mean, what else is there? Would you rather Anne try and get you all to move house?”

“Fuck off,” he mutters at the table. “If anyone’s moving, it’s them! We live next door to each other, for god's sake! How am I meant to keep away from him?”

He feels like a wave of hot water is rising up, ready to burst and pop one of Louis' veins in his head in the process.

“Lower your tone, will you? Jesus,” Anna hisses, and a little of the attitude he once got suddenly appears. Her eyes flash gold.

“I’m just saying—it’s a pretty ridiculous request, don’t you reckon?”

“Well, you’ll have to do your best, won’t you? We’ll try and be as quick as we can with the curse. That’s all we can offer you, Lou. In the meantime, stay away from Harry.”

“Right, I think I get the message,” Louis scowls. “And what about Jacob? Brooke?”

“I’ll tell her he’s been near you, and by extension, Harry. Since he’s just next door. We have protection charms securing the house. We’ll extend them to yours as well. He won’t be able to get inside. Your family will be safe."

"Why would you say that?" Louis panics. "Do you think he'd try to get to my mum? My sister?"

"We'll have people around. Covens we work with keeping an eye out. If you're in trouble, though," she pauses, untangling one of her pendants around her neck. It's a small green stone on a silver chain. She hands it to Louis with care. "Rub this stone and say 'periculum'. One of us we'll sense you and we'll come. Don't worry," she says, far too casually for what Louis is currently feeling.

“Don’t worry, eh?” Louis scoffs, laughing humourlessly. “Yeah. Easy."

“Any trouble, just tell us.”

“Fine.” Louis pushes back against his chair slightly, causing one of the legs to make a loud noise, prompting a couple of heads to glance up. “This is still weird. You here. Telling me all this.”

Anna smiles, a glint in her eye. “Hayley and I are great, by the way.”

“Good,” Louis smirks. 

“Yeah. It is,” Anna smirks back. “Keep a wary eye out, comrade,” she whispers. Totally taking the piss.

“This is a dangerous situation you're mocking,” he bites, slightly incredulous and yet laughter bubbles up his throat. Hysterical, probably. 

She laughs softly. "No, but really," she says more seriously, brows pulled together. "If you need help, look for me in the park. I'll know you're there."

Louis doesn't ask how. _Witch_ , he reminds himself.

She gets out of her chair, thrusting her hands into the pockets of her silver trackies. “Life or death,” she mouths, pulling a stupid, non-terrified face.

"I'd take some acting classes," Louis deadpans.

“You’re such a shit,” Anna calls as she exits the café, leaving Louis sat alone with his cluster of chaotic thoughts, suddenly feeling particularly nauseous. 

 

***

 

It’s not until he brings down his dirty washing that Louis finds the letter again—the one addressed to Harry in fancy handwritten calligraphy, the envelope now crumpled from being stuffed in the back pocket of Louis’ khaki shorts for days.

Louis hums to himself, frowning at the letter in his hand.

“What’s that?” Mum asks as she plonks the laundry basket on the kitchen table.

“Uh, a letter that’s been sent here by accident, I think. It’s for next door, I’ll go post it through.”

Yeah. Maybe this is a sign. The excuse he needs to see Harry. (You know, if he _bumps_ into him,  _accidentally._ And by that it will absolutely be on purpose.)

And he knows full well he’s meant to stay away, that it’s too dangerous right now, but he just needs to look at Harry. Just once. Even if it’s just to give him the letter and then fuck off again.

Yeah. Once won’t hurt. What’s a second’s worth of eye contact going to do?

“Oh, shove this lot in the washing machine too, will you, darling? I have to pop out to see Claire.”

“Anna’s mum?” Louis looks up, surprised.

“Yeah,” his mum replies, not elaborating. She’s wearing her dark denim jacket, black sandals on and a grey dress, bag already slung around her shoulder, sunglasses perched in her loose hair. “Okay, love. I’ll be a couple of hours. Amy’s currently in the garden talking to the gnomes over the fence. She’s had her lunch, by the way.”

Louis nods, “Okay, Mum.”

“Alright, see you later, love.”

It’s not been two minutes when there’s a knock at the door and Louis looks out the kitchen window to find Amy isn’t in the garden.

He wanders into the hall and opens the front door.

Amy’s got her hands behind her back, grinning like a cat that’s got the cream. She pulls her hand out from behind and squirts Louis right in the eye with her bright yellow water pistol.

“Ah!” Louis screeches, squinting and bursting into laughter. “Oh, you cheeky mare!”

He lunges for his sister who squeals, high-pitched and deafening and manages to sprint down the side and into the Styles’ garden.

Great.

“I’ll get you back, girlie!”

He closes the door and wipe his eyes, snickering as he walks back into the kitchen, raiding one of the bottom draws of crap they have in the bordering cabinet that leads to the living room, searching for another water pistol when he hears another knock on the door.

“Amy,” Louis half-groans, half-laughs, wrenching the front door open with his other hand shielding his face, “I swear to G—oh.”

Louis removes his fingers from his face.

Harry.

Harry’s standing at the door.

Louis opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Amy’s suddenly appeared again, and he feels a shot of water hit his back, wetting his t-shirt as his little sister giggles in the background, scuttling across the wooden flooring, and running straight into the backs of Louis’ legs, wrapping her arms around his waist and hugging him while making obnoxious, strenuous noises. She pops her head beside Louis’ hip and blinks at Harry, staring him down curiously.

“You don’t talk much,” Amy says bluntly.

Harry blinks, startled. “Um.”

“And you’re always muddy.” She studies him curiously. 

Louis looks at his sister, face contorted in confusion. “Muddy? What you on about, silly?"

Amy nods, sure. “I see him at night time now and his clothes always have mud on them and—" She pointedly stops speaking, oddly fascinated by Harry's hands, who is staring down at Amy intently, a prominent crease sitting tensely between his brows, slightly bewildered.

“Are you sure that’s me?” he asks her gently. 

“Yeah,” Amy drawls. “I’m not stupid."

Louis tuts and taps her on the shoulder. “ _Amy_ ,” he warns. “Less of the attitude. Don’t be rude. Harry isn’t, so neither should you be.”

Amy loosens her grip on Louis and continues to study Harry warily. “Sorry,” she mutters, cheeks reddening, rubbing her nose against Louis' hip, her grip still tight.

Harry continues to stare with big, wide eyes that are hesitant and flashing with discomfort, his feet and knees that pointing inwardly as they so often do, his pale, slender hands hidden in the pockets of his trademark dungarees. “It’s fine," he smiles at her, showing a bit of dimple. "It's nice to meet you."

Amy still doesn't seem so sure. Which is annoying. Louis would like them to get on greatly.

"Do you like my brother?" Amy asks with keen interest.

Harry and Louis share a timid look. There's a long pause.

"I do like your brother, yeah," Harry smiles tentatively. 

This doesn't seem to please Amy, her face falling further. 

"He likes you, too," she replies glumly.

Louis frowns at her worriedly. It doesn't sound like she hates the idea because she doesn't like Harry, but more that she's 

"Alright, that's enough out of you. Mum's calling you, Ames."

Harry awkwardly brushes his fringe out of his eyes, cheeks reddening and Louis notices his hair is newly washed, sleek, mousse curls drooping into his evergreen eyes, which, if it’s possible, are even greener than he’s ever seen them before.

Louis gulps thickly, stomach plummeting wildly.

“Amy," he repeats. "Mum is calling for you.”

“No, she’s not,” Amy frowns up at him. “She’s gone out.”

Louis hisses, pats Amy’s hair, inwardly groaning in frustration. “She _is._ Go on. Scram you pest."

Huffing, Amy lets go of his hip and stomps off inside, leaving Louis alone with Harry.

There’s a faint blush on each of Harry’s pearl-dusted cheeks and he’s biting on the corner of his bottom lip, nervousness blinking in his eyes as he meets Louis’ slightly stunned gaze.

“Hey,” Harry breathes finally, knocking Louis for six and immediately sending his heart racing down a motorway.

“Sorry, do I know you?” Louis half-jokes, mostly annoyed that his family have stopped them from seeing each other, angry at the absurdity of the situation, and still a bit moody over the fact Harry just left the other night without even a goodbye.

Instantly, Harry flinches at his words.

Louis breaks his gaze, folding his arms stubbornly. Yes, he plans on dragging this out for at least ten seconds. He stares at a point over Harry’s shoulder, drinking in the blue of the sky. A car whizzes by, causing a dog to bark.

“Where’ve you been? Next _door_?” Louis says wryly, trying to conceal the hurt Harry’s caused him by not explaining what was happening, for not trying reassure him or even having the guts to tell Louis whether he either can’t or doesn’t want to hang around Louis anymore.

“I deserve that,” Harry replies quietly, looking down at his feet, a tiny crease between his brows, mouth turned down into a sad pout. Louis clenches his fist, resisting the urge to tug Harry forward and into a hug.

“No, you don’t,” Louis utters softly.

"No?" Harry says, hanging onto Louis' every word.

“I know what’s been going on. Anna told me.”

“Oh. I see." A pause. "Louis—I’m—I’ve really—” Harry starts, his faltering voice hoarse from tiredness, it sounds like. There are dark shadows underneath his eyes, light dabs of purplish tones.

Louis feels a pang in his chest.

“Is it done with now?” he cuts in, voice cautiously hopeful. “The curse? If you’re here—"

“No,” Harry shakes his head, mouth downturned sadly. “Mum and Brooke have been working on it since—since the other night.”

“The other night when you couldn’t even manage a goodnight?” Louis teases, but his words are still mildly laced with hurt.

Harry bows his head, scowls down at his feet as the thick silence soaks the air between them.

Louis’ shoulders deflate, sighing as he breaks Harry’s gaze briefly, settling it back on him after a moment to see Harry visibly swallowing, rubbing his nose with his fingers.

“Is this it, then? Are we not hanging out for the foreseeable future?”

A look of conflicted distress appears to tug at Harry’s features. “I’m sorry—I know I should have said something to you that night, and you must have been confused why I—I’ve had to keep my distance for a while,” he answers guiltily. “Which Anna must have told you, yeah?”

“She filled me in on most of it, I guess.”

“Okay," he nods to himself, "so you know it was basically an order. Not just from Mum, but from the coven, too. That I’m not allowed to be here right now.”

“Since when do you do as you’re told?” Louis asks, a flare of irritation creeping up his neck as he widens his legs farther apart in what he thinks is a somewhat intimidating, or at least confident stance. (Pity he’s wearing Ninja Turtles socks.)

A flicker of annoyance tinges Harry’s eyes. “Well, I dunno. Since I found out if I fall in love, I’d unintentionally kill the person, maybe?”

And yeah. Okay. That’s more than reasonable.

“Sorry,” Louis says glumly. He scrapes the sole of his shoe on the doorstep. “This is all just still so… hard to wrap my head around, you know? What with my nightmares, too, and I just thought I was getting used to all this—” he waves his hand vaguely, “—magic and hexes and curses and stuff. But. Yeah. I just thought—I dunno what I thought.”

Harry frowns deeply, another scowl forming. He sighs, briefly shutting his eyes.

“Do you not wanna see me anymore?” His voice is so sad. Like a kicked puppy’s. Truthfully, Louis doesn’t want that at all.

“What?” Louis blinks.

“I didn’t _want_ to not see you, Louis. I’ve hated these last few days.” His frown softens into that of a concerned twist of his pretty peach mouth. “And I’m not okay with staying away from you.”

Louis lets a smile form on his own face.

“You know that, don’t you? That’s not what—is that what you think?” Harry’s voice is etched in hurt. “I hate this. I feel like even _this_ part of my life is being controlled. I can’t do anything without some kind of restriction on me. I’m always been controlled by something. My mum, my magic. I just—want something for me, you know?”

Louis can understand that. He hates how miserable Harry looks because of this. Just wants to kiss him better. Be teenagers and snog all day and eat too many packets of crisps and watch shit telly.

“God. I’m whining again. I’m sorry,” Harry says, pressing a hand to his forehead.

“You’re not. You’re just being honest.”

“It just feels like no one else around me really gets it. How trapped I feel.” Harry tugs at the collar of his white t-shirt, poking out from under the front of his dungarees.

Louis notices Harry’s hands are shaking badly, and there’s not even the slightest of breezes but the leaves on the trees suddenly begin to shuffle, like they’re being shaken by a giant hand. It’s noisy and abrupt, a bunch of the leaves falling to the ground.

His emotions are tied to his magic, aren’t they? Looks like Louis’ just witnessed some of the effects.

Harry shoots a quick glance to his right, but doesn’t say anything to Louis about the short commotion.

Louis’ hands are itching to reach out, to hold Harry’s limp, trembling hand that’s dropped by his side. “What do we do now, then? With this curse. Where does it leave us, exactly?”

It shouldn’t affect them much at all, really.

Because it’s ridiculous, isn’t it?

Louis hasn’t even known Harry properly for a month. Hasn’t been long since all their interactions still consisted of seeing each other in passing, a blush when he looked at Harry, attended him at the cinema’s ticket booth, hasn’t been long at all since he’s even been around Harry.

It’s been a bloody week. Obviously, Louis isn’t _in love_ with Harry.

But he could be eventually. A way down the line. Okay. Maybe not even that far down it—he’d probably fall pretty fast, if he’s honest.

God, he likes Harry. He really, really _likes_ him, though. He’s grown attached. It's a bit late to back off now.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you fall for someone, they really could they actually _die_ because of the curse Isabel put on your family? Like, for real?”

Harry nods slowly, a blankness travelling over his tired features. “Yeah. It’s… yeah. That’s right.”

A heavy pause.

“Does it happen right away?” 

“We're not sure how long it would take.” Harry stops, clears his throat. “But historically, within a few weeks, if I fell in love and if the other person was in love with me too, then... yeah,” he breathes emptily. “We could both die. As morbid and dramatic as it sounds to say out loud. But... Well. That’s it.” He laughs humourlessly, tipping his head back briefly, squints against the stark blue of the summer sky. “Cheerful, eh? Something really nice to think about, this.”

He winces, turning his attention to his bracelets.

Louis feels another twinge tug behind his ribs.

“I’m sorry this is happening to you.” _To us_ , is what he leaves unsaid. Because that’s just too over-the-top. Right? It’s not happening to them. It’s happening to Harry.

It’s too soon. The possibility that they were getting to be something close to what the curse would soon stop—it was too far away from now to get upset over, anyway.

Right?

And Anne still wants Louis away. They all do. Louis’ been discovered by Jacob. He could be used as bait to lure Harry to—whatever it is that Jacob wants to achieve.

So.

But.

“But even if it might take a while, like, to stop it—there’s no reason why you can’t still have fun in the meantime, right?” Louis throws out there. His overwhelming urge to kiss Harry again propelling him to say it. What can he say? He’s a horny lad, he supposes.

(That’s not really it.)

There’s a pull that Louis can’t ignore, one that wants Harry by Louis’ side.

“It will only be a little while. No one can fall in love in a matter of weeks.”

He waits.

Harry frowns. “Yeah. About that. Brooke seems to have got an ingredient wrong, so it’s going to take even longer before we can even attempt to, like, get rid of it,” he says, mumbling the last few words.

“Oh. Okay,” Louis says blankly.

“Yeah,” Harry whispers.

A long silence settles between them. The sound of a hose next door to Harry’s switches on. The spray of the water the only noise as they stand in front of the other, avoiding their gazes.

“Are we still friends, though?” Louis finally asks.

Harry looks up instantly, eyes wide. “Of course we are,” he says, like Louis’ asked him the single most nonsensical thing in the world. And Harry here, is a witch. So, that’s saying something. “But I… Louis. I wanna be more than friends.”

“I know.”

Harry blinks, surprised. 

“I do, too,” Louis says softly. Sadly.

“But we can’t—”

“I’m not in love with you, Harry,” Louis chuckles, hand flying into his hair. “I _like_ you. I really do. I admit that. But it’s been—well, it’s not even been weeks, has it? So, really, we could still just like… carry on with,” he leans in closer, whispering, “what we were doing the other night?” His eyes fall to Harry’s parting rosebud lips. “Right? I mean, what’s the longest it could take to get rid of the curse?”

“I think it can be done before another month,” Harry says, voice uncertain but hopeful at the same time. He’s thinking about it. He’s also staring at Louis’ lips, seems to have swayed forward a bit.

A smile begins to slowly form on Harry’s hesitant face.

“You think we’d be okay to still hang out? And like, kiss?”

“Yeah,” Louis laughs. “Kiss, definitely. Lots of it. Everywhere, even,” he adds, watching the way Harry’s cheeks pinken with glee.

Harry still looks unsure, though, shifting uncomfortably on the spot despite being unable to control his smile. "I don't know..."

“Because it's not like—you know—” Louis attempts, flushing himself now, not knowing how to verbalise something so strong, seeing as it sounds ridiculously forward when you’re not even officially dating someone, have only even snogged them a few times. “Surely they'll figure out how to stop the curse before we get—"

"Too close?" Harry offers tentatively.

"Yeah," Louis half-smiles, "and then it won’t matter? It'll be safe, I guess? Yeah? And we won’t have to worry about things progressing further on their own. If they do—not that I'm implying we'd—"

"I know what you mean."

Harry begins to frown again.

Louis' pulse quickens.

“They can’t know, though," Harry says adamantly, brows creased. "We’d have to meet in secret.”

“Ooh. Exciting,” Louis grins.

A hint of a smile curves the corner of Harry’s mouth, a puff of air escaping. “No, but seriously, Louis. I’m not even supposed to be here. No one can know about us.”

“Okay, so we’ll have to sneak around, won’t we? Don’t tell me she’s got you housebound too?”

“No. I am allowed to go out. And she has work during the day, at the salon in town, so she can’t keep tabs on me all the time. And it’s still the summer holidays, so.”

“It could work,” Louis smiles, swaying closer.

“You can’t kiss me here,” Harry whispers, eyes shining. “Besides, um. Your little sister is watching us.”

Louis turns around to see Amy sucking on a lolly pop, staring at them with wide eyes.

“Where did you get that, Miss?”

Amy immediately scuttles away.

“Don’t run with that thing in your mouth, Amy!” Louis yells after her.

He sighs, turning back to Harry and throwing him an apologetic look. "I'll have to have a word with her."

“What do you think she meant earlier?” Harry asks.

“The muddy comment?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, tone serious.

“I’m not sure,” Louis replies. “It was a bit weird. Why?”

“Ask her about it later,” Harry shrugs. “Can’t hurt to ask, right?”

“Okay,” Louis nods.

Harry’s back to standing rigid again, eyes flitting everywhere but at Louis.

“Hey,” Louis says, grasping Harry’s forearm and grins when Harry’s breath catches, meeting his gaze with lidded eyes. And green. A gaze so green, irises slowly dissipating into a soft violet.

Louis stares, transfixed.

“So…” He begins to hover in front of the other boy’s face, wanting to pull him in by the neck, Harry’s nose grazing Louis’ cheek, his hot breath caressing his chin.

Harry visibly swallows, his Adam’s apple bopping.

There's no one around, the street empty. 

Louis pecks a kiss to his neck, jolting Harry slightly, who blinks at him with big, round eyes.

“How about you get better at appearing in different places? Then you can magic yourself into my room at, say… after midnight tonight?” Louis’ voice is syrupy as he pecks another quick kiss to Harry’s lips, checking no one was watching. “You know, so it’s late enough for no one to notice,” he mumbles against him, pressing another softly to his mouth.

Harry leans into it, presses back harder, attempting to deepen it.

“Hey,” Louis scolds, smiling as he pulls back, placing a hand over Harry's chest. “Thought you were the one who said we have to be careful?”

“I’ll try and come over tonight,” Harry immediately replies, voice hoarse and cheeks splashed with red.

“You do that,” Louis agrees, squeezing Harry’s waist. “Oh, and before I forget, this arrived two weeks ago now I think,” he winces. “Sorry it took so long. I completely forgot about it.”

He hands Harry the crumpled letter with Harry’s name on in a swirly scrawl.

Shoulders gone stiff, Harry seems to stare at it with caution, as if the envelope is about to bite him if unexpectedly provoked. “Who sent this?”

“I dunno, Haz. It just came through a couple of weeks ago, Mum said. We kept it on the dresser. Had every intention of posting it through to you—”

“It’s fine,” Harry shakes his head a little vehemently. “Um. Thanks. I’ll—I’ll come by tonight, yeah?” he says quietly, though his smile is no longer in place. His face taught with tension, a deep crease between his brows.

“Yeah. I’ll be waiting,” Louis smiles lightly. "Secret lover," he mouths, laughing at his own terribly lame joke. He cringes inwardly at how it's fallen flat, Harry's face even paler than usual.

“’kay. Bye,” Harry says quickly, abruptly and then he's at his own doorstep, closing the door of his house without any further ceremony.

Louis closes his own and leans back on the cool door for a moment, frowning, and hit with an odd feeling slithering though his innards, his palms flat against the smooth wood, wondering what just happened.


	11. xi.

 

“Fuck,” Louis mutters to himself. 

 _'Secret lover’_ , he’d said.

Who the fuck says that?

Jesus. And not even ironically. Harry looked half-terrified.

Embarrassing. Louis’ embarrassed. He turns into an idiot around Harry, clearly. And they’ve not even—they’ve not—nothing at all like _that_. So, he can’t even blame a post-sex, foggy and out-of-it brain that resembles a leaning tower of jelly rather than an intelligent, incredibly complex organ. (Brains are organs, right? No, of course they are. See? Dumb. Idiot. Cheers.)

Oh, god. What could possibly have gotten Harry into a tizzy again now? It can’t be that phrase. Because any other time Harry would have cackled so loudly, you’d have heard it from the coast of France, for god’s sake.

Half the things Louis says aren’t even funny and yet Harry seems to think he’s the funniest person that ever lived.

It’s a nice feeling. Warm. Lovely.

But.

Louis still can’t seem to stop spooking Harry. Which—now that  _is_  ironic.

He groans, rubbing his hand over his face haphazardly and raids the fridge in search of a snack, plucking a Snickers bar from its multi-pack wrapper and devours the chocolate snack in four bites and slumps his arms on the kitchen counter.

Forcibly pushing aside all slightly concerned thoughts about Harry  _again,_  (after that odd, hasty exit—a habit Louis impulsively thought was a stage they were over now) he wanders purposefully around the kitchen, methodically spraying the surfaces clean, shoving the dirty clothes left in the basket into the washing machine and inevitably lets his eyes continue to linger on that bloody plant that prompted Louis’ discovery of witches in the first place, sat conspicuously on the window sill.

He stares at the lush green leaves on its stem, a picture of health, before pursing his lips and walking over to the sink to look through the window, frowning when he can’t see Amy anywhere.

“Where is that kid?” he drones, his thumping heart accelerating until he finds Amy actually _is_  hiding in their garden, sitting calmly in the lengthy grass, half-concealed by the bushes and… stroking a neighbour’s cat.

It meows when Louis approaches, rolling onto its back coquettishly, if you ask Louis. He chuckles breathily, rubbing its soft and fluffy black and white furred belly.

“Alright, you?”

Amy immediately looks up at him, a thoughtful expression on her small, lightly freckled face as she watches Louis place himself next to her, knees drawn up to his chest, bumping her arm with his elbow.

“What’s got you so glum, Miss?”

With a pout, she looks positively sullen. Sighing, she informs him, “This is Barry,”—the cat mews as if to introduce himself—“He’s tired.”

Amy yawns.

So is someone else, it seems.

Louis nods. “Hi, Barry. Yeah, aren’t we all, eh?”

The cat mews at him.

“Yeah. Totally.” Louis laughs around a puff of air as the cat mews some more. Like they’re having an important conversation. “Filthy, if you ask me.”

Amy’s hand trails up and down the cat’s head, quiet and unassuming, prompting Barry to settle down against her lap. She’s seemed subdued since she got back from Mallorca, Louis thinks. It’s jarring since Amy’s such a happy, lively, mischievous child; he’s worried about what could have gotten her so down all of a sudden.

Or Louis is overreacting and she’s just exhausted from the flight, which be more than normal and expected. But that doesn’t seem all it is, though. There’s something else that’s bothering her and it’s his job as her older brother to find out what it is. He briefly wonders how long his mum will be, frowning.

“Oi, you,” he begins, bopping Amy’s nose, “what made you think Harry is always muddy when you see him? Does he do a lot of midnight gardening or something?”

Amy stays silent.

“Ames, do you not like Harry?”

Very helpfully and predictably, Amy just shrugs, focused on Barry as sniffs at her hand and then promptly decides to trot off, leaving Amy pouting over his departure. He feels himself wilt. He really wants Amy to like him. He’s not sure why he wouldn’t, other than he knows she thinks Harry’s a bit of a strange kid.

But there is an obvious explanation. Not that she knows that.

His little sister sighs heavily, crossing her legs.

“Hm?” Louis prods, playfully giving her shoulder a light shove. She gives him a glare. “Why don’t you like Harry?”

“I don’t know him,” Amy answers simply.

Louis’ still not convinced.

“Okay, fair enough, and Mum taught you not to talk to strangers and all that, and well done, but… Harry isn’t really a stranger, you know. Well. Not to me, he’s not. Because… see, I know Harry now and I… like him a lot.” A pause. “He’s my friend now, Amy,” Louis tells her. “So, it’d be pretty cool if you could be a bit nicer to him, yeah?” he says, voice gentle, casual.

Amy lifts her head, watching and listening to him closely, her eyes now lit with interest.

“Only,” he hesitates, “you can’t tell anyone that we’re friends. Not even Mum, because then she might tell Harry’s mum about us and then... well, that wouldn’t be good.”

His stomach drops slightly. Because yes, Louis does know his mum already thinks they’re friends, probably planning on telling Anne herself, but he’s going to have to fix that. Tell her she’s mistaken. Especially now that he and Harry have decided they’re going to casually sneak around a bit while Harry’s family fixes the predicament that they’re currently in.

And then once that’s over and dealt with, they can be a proper couple, Louis thinks. His belly flutters at the thought.

He also knows Anna and the rest of her coven seem to think there’s no good that can come of Harry and Louis continuing to allow their relationship to develop while the curse is still at play.

And okay, Louis gets that. He does. He’d be lying if he’s not still apprehensive and wary of that.

But Louis has it under control. The Harry thing. It just has to remain a secret. Because when the curse is gone, it doesn’t matter. It won’t matter anymore. They can be together. Properly. And not have to worry about their feelings developing into something more serious. More intense.

Right?

Amy seems to think through Louis’ words, considering them while she looks over Louis’ shoulder contemplatively.

“Why wouldn’t it be good, though?” she asks slowly. “Why does it have to be a secret if Harry’s your friend?”

“Because,” Louis says, “then me and Harry wouldn’t be able to see each other or be friends anymore. They’d stop us.”

Not that Louis can see  _how_ they would try to do that, what with them being neighbours.

“But why?” Amy frowns, an edge of frustration in her voice as she tilts her head sideways and shifts restlessly on the grass. She ends up sitting upright on folded legs, infinitely more absorbed now.

“Because—” he sighs—"there are people who don’t want Harry and I to be friends,” Louis tries vaguely. He can hardly tell her the real reason. “They just don’t like it.”

“Why not?”

“It’s…” Louis debates how to put it, something that will ensure Amy won’t let this slip, “it’s a secret. I can’t tell you, Ames. Okay?”

Amy sticks her lips out petulantly. At least she’s a bit livelier again. “But  _I_ can keep a secret!” she bemoans. "Tell me,” she whines.

Louis laughs and Amy’s expression only becomes more affronted.

“I have a secret, too,” she says, lifting her chin haughtily.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. But I’m not telling you because you won’t tell me yours, will you?”

Louis groans but grins. “You drive a hard bargain, young lady.” A few beats pass. “What’s your secret, then? Maybe I’ll tell you mine afterwards.” He won’t. But she doesn’t know that. He smirks.

Humming, Amy bows her head, plucking strands of grass.

It doesn’t take long for Amy to consider her options, rather seeming to want to get whatever she has on her mind off her chest. She’s already bracing herself, inhaling and exhaling a breath, eyeing Louis seriously.

“I dream about Harry sometimes. And about you, too. I think… you might be friends in the dream, too.”

Louis’ blood runs cold.

“What do you mean, Ames?”

“I have a dream about Harry. He’s in trouble,” she adds hesitantly, gauging Louis’ expression.

“What?” he barely croaks out. “ _How_  in trouble?”

Amy presses her lips together. “But I don’t want you to get upset—” she starts, her voice housing an obvious wobble.

Louis’ chest clenches with anxiety. “Oh, god, darling, no—it’s alright. I won’t get upset. Just tell me what you saw in the dreams, yeah? I have them, too, you know,” he tells her, panic prickling at him. Because shit.

“Do you?”

“Yeah. Lots of times. They’re not nice, are they?” he says, half-smiling, trying to keep a light tone as to not to scare her more than she seems to be already.

And. God. What if what Louis has gone through is being passed onto Amy now? What if it’s both of them now?

What the hell is going on with his family?

Should he ask his mum if she’s experienced nightmares, too? Are they some kind of secret family of clairvoyants that can see into the fucking future? Does his mum know anything about this at all?

Amy shakes her head adamantly. "No. They're scary."

"I know, love," he soothes. "But they're just dreams. They won't hurt you."

“Well, Harry is hurt in them and you keep trying to save him. And… I don’t want you to get hurt as well. When you try to help Harry,” Amy answers sheepishly.

What?

“How do you mean, Amy?” Louis asks slowly, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice. “Can you tell me exactly what you dream about? Is it always the same?”

Amy nods. “Yeah,” she says, her eyes are round and focused, bright blue. “It’s always you and Harry and—um, you were in the woods and, um—” she frowns hard, “a bad man was chasing you, and—um, he,” she stammers, her voice breathless, “and then, Harry almost fell off a cliff from running so fast and you saved him and—and then—um—you came home, and Harry was bleeding on his face and it was—there was blood on his hands and his clothes and his face, and he was all muddy. I don’t know why,” she pauses, “I think he fell over in the woods, “and then the nasty man was there again and Harry screamed and then he stopped and you were there and then—”

“And then, what?” Louis breathes, heart thudding painfully against his bones.

“And then there was lightning and Harry was gone.”

Gone.

“What happened after that?”

“Um, I don’t know… I wake up then,” Amy says quietly, visibly distressed. “And Harry was gone,” she repeats. “And you cried—" she says, face crumpling.

“Oh. Alright, alright,” Louis says immediately, pulling his sister into a secure hug. Amy clings to him and buries her face in his chest. “It’s okay. It was just a dream, love. Only a dream.”

“A horrible dream.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Just nightmares, though, aren’t they?”

“I didn’t want you to be upset,” Amy sniffles into his chest.

“No, no. It’s okay, love,” Louis soothes, head pounding with a force he didn’t know was possible, his hands shaking. “I’m okay.”

“Do you think Harry’s okay, too?”

“Thought you thought Harry was weird,” Louis teases, voice still hoarse.

“No… I think I’d like to be Harry’s friend. I’m sorry I was rude.”

“You know what? I think Harry would love that. To be your friend. And it’s alright. Just watch your ‘tude, young lady,” Louis smiles.

It quiets for a few long moments, Amy still curled in Louis’ arms.

“I had the dream all the time on holiday,” Amy admits, words muffled in his shirt. “When I went to bed, I kept waking Mummy up.”

Louis hums. Mum hasn’t mentioned that yet.  

Louis cradles her head, closing his eyes. God, he hopes Amy isn’t experiencing what Louis is, too. Not now. And it’s… the same. It’s the same dream. It’s too similar.

But how can they both be having the same nightmare?

 _This_  sounds like a nightmare.

He has to talk to Anne.

 

***

 

Louis paces up and down the kitchen to the hallway and back again several times, debating just knocking next door (whether they approve of Louis showing up after being told to keep his distance or not), before he finally decides to poke his head through the gate of Anne’s garden, sweat beading at his collar and his forehead.

She’s there. And so is Harry.

He’s in a clean white-tee shirt, a yellow smiley face printed on the front, his glasses on. He looks vulnerable, agitated, constantly touching the crescent moon pendant dangling around his pale, slender neck, his teeth sunken into his bottom lip.

Naturally, Louis’ stomach swoops, letting out a catch in his breath, and Harry almost sees him, looks in his direction before Louis gathers his bearings and ducks his head sideways from their view.

They’re walking out onto their cream patio, as the pattering sound of the tumbling stone water feature, sat between the gnomes at the end of the garden, fills the warm air.

Louis crouches down slightly, feeling the urge to hide as he peaks through the gap between the fence.

“Where did it come from?” Louis hears Anne say, her voice harsh, urgent. She walks onto the grass, determined, Harry trailing behind.

“Louis said it had been posted through their letterbox by mistake,” Harry replies easily, if not for the slight tremor in his voice, “he just forgot to give it to me.” A pause. “What do you think it is?”

“Give it here,” Anne says mildly, holding the edge of the envelope with her fingertips. She says a few murmured words that Louis can’t decipher and then there’s a flash of light. Louis jolts, and the paper falls to the grass, bursting into flames as it disintegrates, specks of hot ash jumping from the page, burning into blackness.

“What happened?” Harry says, panicked. “Why did you destroy it—I thought—”

“It was a tracking spell,” Anne interrupts, sounding far calmer than Harry. “Someone’s trying to determine our location. If you had opened this, it would have been too late.”

“But I though location spells only work through the same immediate bloodline?”

“This is dark magic.”

Louis watches Anne stamp on the ashes, Harry’s worried brows looking on.

“I need you to keep your wits about you, Harry. I mean it. Don’t speak to anyone apart from Liam, Anna and Grace. Okay? Only the coven, Harry. It’s too risky.” Louis can see that Harry wants to protest but Anne silences him with a firm look. “And that means Louis, too.”

Her tone is final.

Harry’s shoulders deflate, mouth twisting with stubbornness. He doesn’t like this. Neither does Louis.

She walks back inside, leaving Harry staring down at the remains of the envelope.

Louis backs away from the fence, wondering why Anne didn’t just tell Harry who it was who must be looking for him.

 

***

_Wake up, boy. Wake up._

It’s past three in the morning when Harry comes to Louis’ room.

Having half-dozed off waiting for him, Louis is jolted fully awake when he first hears the creak of his floorboards, the rustling of his sheets before he’s hit with the sensation of warm thighs bracketing his hips and even warmer breath, laced with the distinct smell of cider brushing his face.

_Wake up!_

For one disconcerting moment, Louis is struck by the unsettling feeling that someone else is watching him, someone’s breath that isn’t Harry’s, this person’s breath uncomfortably stale and hot against his ear, making him squirm, rendering him dizzy in a way that’s wrong, as though every ounce of energy is being drained from his body.

And then he sees Harry hovering above him, smiling dopily down at Louis and his belly swoops, vanquishing any fear he felt a moment ago.

“You took your time,” Louis smiles sleepily, blinking his eyes rapidly until he can see Harry better, the moonlight filtering in through Louis’ open window and illuminating the side of Harry’s extremely pleased, seemingly tipsy face, his eyes glossy.

So pleased, in fact, Louis almost forgets his abrupt exit earlier.

“Thought you’d changed your mind.”

Grinning, Harry plants a sloppy wet kiss to Louis’ cheek, pecking his lips twice.

“Not a chance,” he says, before dragging his silky mouth softly across and under Louis’ jawline, peppering small kisses as he goes.

And Louis—melts, his insides giddy and gooey with affection, full to the brim with overwhelming fondness for this boy who’s more than happy to shower him with kisses and smiles and letting soft giggles tangle in his hair.

He grabs at Harry’s waist and squeezes, toppling him over so that Harry is on his back. Louis encircles Harry’s wrists and pins them above Harry’s head, who pliantly lets Louis do as he wants, muscles relaxed and trusting and slumped into the mattress, eyes glazed and green, watching Louis with sparkling interest, eyes filled with curiosity.

“You managed to get over here eventually, then.” Louis pecks a kiss to his neck, just because he can.

“I wanted to see you,” Harry replies without hesitation. “And it turns out—” he leans up and plants a soft kiss by Louis’ jaw, “—that if I want to be somewhere badly enough, my magic takes over and it’s surprisingly easy to keep that train of thought when I’m thinking about you. Takes me to you without a beat.” His tone is proud.

“Stop, you’re making me blush,” Louis grumbles around a reluctant smile, cheeks hot as he pulls his gaze away.

When he glances back, Harry’s responding smile could be seen from space.

“You could have woken up my mum and Amy if I’d screamed, you know.”

“Sorry,” Harry smiles, pecking his lips again, nuzzling his face into Louis’ shoulder, nosing along his arm until he looks up again, reaching his chin.

“You don’t sound very sorry,” Louis grins down at him.

“I am.”

“You’re not.”

“Okay, I’m not,” Harry chuckles breathlessly, as he rolls over to the left side of the bed, immediately hooking his leg over Louis’ blanketed body like this is something they do, and simply tucks his face into the crook of Louis’ neck.

With his breaths that tickle Louis’ neck, Harry sighs contentedly and Louis has the urge to pull him closer, to tighten his grip around his waist. Now that he has him here. Safe and sound.

But the nagging voice at the back of his mind is telling him to mention Jacob. Just so Harry knows, because what if Anna hasn’t even told Anne and Brooke yet? What if none of them know?

He also doesn’t want to upset Harry’s mood.

But… needs must.

And this is important. He thinks Harry would want to know, even if his family don’t.

“Harry?”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, a calm, pressed smile smooth on his tired face.

Louis was hoping for some more cuddle time, some more kissing, but he might as well get it out now or Harry could find out later that Louis knew and never said anything, and the last thing he wants is Harry thinking he’d keep stuff from him, so he blurts out, “I had a bit of a creepy visit on Monday. I was half-worried I was in  _Scream_.”

Impressively fast, Harry lifts his head, regarding Louis with serious brows. “A visit from who?”

“Whom, actually,” Louis corrects needlessly, prolonging the inevitable.

Harry frowns, unimpressed.

“Uh,” Louis flips onto his side and clutches at Harry’s bicep. “Jacob.” He clears his throat. “Apparently.”

Harry’s eyes widen, shooting upright. “ _Jacob_? He came  _here_? This happened Monday?”

“Monday night, yeah,” Louis says regretfully. “I’m—I didn’t tell you yet because—well, I thought Anna would.”

“Anna?”

“Yeah, I told her and she said it must be Jacob, and that he’s been sending Brooke… sinister messages.”

“God,” Harry exhales, brushing his hand through his fringe. “Why did he knock on  _your_ door, though? Was he checking if it was mine? How does he know where we live? He didn’t—he didn’t know. I never told him our new address. Mum would have killed me if I—” He cuts off, breathless, and leaps over to the window where he tugs on the blinds, looking through the gap with a determined glare.

“Harry—”

“Did he hurt you?”

Harry swirls around, his whole body radiating a sort of feverish, chaotic energy force he’s not seen in Harry before. The lights start to flicker, the room seeming to tremor slightly, objects vibrating atop Louis’ desk and bedside table. It’s not much, but it’s there, like a whirring beneath the surface.

“No, no. He didn’t touch me,” Louis insists. “He just… he was just a right creep, that’s all. Unsettled me a bit.”

Louis looks at Harry’s hands—they’re trembling as his movements start to jerk, closing his hands into fists. He comes back to the bed and perches on the edge, catching Louis’ hand. His grip tight, eyes marred with panic.

“And I can take care of myself,” Louis smirks, running his thumb reverently over Harry’s downturned mouth, “even if you think I’m a useless human.”

Blinking, Harry shakes his head vehemently, “No,” he insists, shocked. “I don’t think that at all—I—"

Louis chuckles, affection soaking his innards despite the unease he also feels from the tremor still slightly present in Harry’s body.

He crawls over to him, closing the space between them, and pushes the sheets aside, wanting comfort the other boy, whose hair is wildly frizzing at the ends, his forehead swept with a sweaty sheen from the humidity and alcohol.

He swipes soothing hands over Harry’s face, his neck, ending with pressing his thumb into Harry’s bottom lip. The soft pressure is enough to quieten Harry down, halt his erratic movements, and his deeply set frown slowly begins dissolving into calmness, his shiny eyelids fluttering at the gesture.

“It’s fine,” Louis assures. “He’s a creepy, sleazy fucker. But I’m alright.”

“He’s a powerful witch, you know,” Harry warns, raising his brows in a playfully mocking tone, despite his unhappy expression. “You don’t want to piss him off. He plays dirty, Lou.”

 _Lou._  The familiarity of the name makes Louis’ insides melt further.

“Yeah? Well, so do I.”

Louis grins. Harry doesn’t, only searches his face before pulling his gaze away. He quiets a moment, head bowed.

“I can’t believe he came  _here_ , though,” he whispers, voice becoming crackled. “He was so close to us. And to  _you_ …” he murmurs. He turns away and shifts further to the edge of the bed, looking sad and anxious and that just won’t do. “And now he knows your face and I’m so—"

Louis cups Harry’s face with one hand, smiles at him delicately as he takes Harry’s hand with his other. It’s clammy and warm and Louis squeezes it tight. It’s odd, he thinks, how they can touch now, without any buzz or electric shocks when their skin meets. So unlike when they first met, and Louis was startled by the humming that he felt when they’d accidently brush hands.

He files that question for later.

But now, he has a glum, anxious boy to cheer up. “Hey,” Louis drawls, teasing.

Harry lets out a soft breath, barely meeting Louis’ eyes when he lifts his head slowly, staying there, locked in place only a moment before his gaze drifting to their joined hands as he resists Louis attempting to steer Harry’s face to look at him with his fingertips dancing along Harry’s cheek.

“Oi,” Louis smiles, “I’m fine, aren’t I?” he says, wanting to soothe Harry’s erratic pulse. His fingertips graze over Harry’s neck, under his jaw, where his pulse rockets to and fro beneath his skin. “And Anna said your mum and Brooke would handle it.”

“Why didn’t they just mention any of this to me, though?” Harry glowers at their connected hands. “They’re still treating me like I can’t handle any of this.”

Louis thinks back to the tremors that Harry created around them when he came to the door earlier, how the tree shook, without so much as a breeze, stripping the leaves from their branches like an overpowering gust of wind made them fall.

All from the storm of emotions that was vibrating under Harry’s skin—his magic.

“Maybe they didn’t want to worry you?” Louis tries, keeping his voice even. “I’m sure they don’t do this on purpose. They must have a reason.”

He thinks about the man chasing them through the woods in his dreams—the same, reoccurring nightmare that even his little sister is having now. How all signs point to that man being Jacob.

A pang of fear saturates his insides for a moment.

He wants to tell Harry, but something’s stopping him for now. Whether it be the need to protect his loved ones, or the increasing concern over Harry’s control of his magic.

“What do you mean?” Harry wonders, brows creased. Louis keeps hold of Harry’s hand which slightly tightens around Louis’, the tendons and veins prominent and stiff. Like he’s holding in a world of tension and suppressed feelings.

“Well—I—” Louis stutters, the light from Louis’ lamp seems to be flickering insistently. “Just that—they must have a good reason for not telling you? Protecting you is a good reason, you know? Just putting that out there,” he says firmly, but gently enough that Harry knows he’s not looking for a fight.

“Yeah. By conjuring up more secrets,” Harry  says blandly, but his features quickly soften, taking in Louis’ words and letting them soak through.

He sighs exasperatedly.

Taking their joined hands, Harry places them in his lap, shifting closer to Louis, almost pressing their chests together. He puts his other hand on theirs, cupping them protectively.

Louis wonders if he realises what he’s even doing, a small smile curving his mouth.

“No, I know it’s a good enough reason,” Harry admits quietly. “I’m sorry. I can’t seem to stop complaining about this, can I?”

Louis tugs Harry forward.

“Lie down with me.”

Harry’s shoulders relax imperceptibly, and he lies back down on the bed over the covers, body pliant, lets Louis curl him into his side, a hand buried in Harry’s curls.

“What did he say?” Harry asks, a nervous edge to his voice, muffled in Louis’ chest. Louis tingles.

“It was weird, actually. He wanted  _me_  to help him find Brooke. Just turned up on my doorstep and—”  _Knew my name._  “Said he’d be back around the area in case I’d see her. Can you believe that? Wouldn't tell me his name. Though it was obviously him, right?”

“Yeah, couldn't be anyone else but him. Probably trying to get a read on you to see whether you’re loyal to us.”

“I am,” Louis says instantly, feeling Harry’s mouth curve against the thin material of his t-shirt.

Louis lowers his chin to find the younger boy already staring up at him, a soft smile on his exhausted, still tipsy face, eyelids droopy.

“Auntie Brooke used to date him—Jacob." Harry's voice is tired, the remnants of alcohol still making him slur a bit. "It didn’t last long. Brooke said he was too controlling, yelled all the time, took things out on her."

"What a dickhead."

"Yeah," Harry agrees with a scowl. "He’s always tried to worm his way into the coven, acts like he has rights to be here with us, like he's our family. He's not. My mum hates him. I was stupid enough to seek him out for magic lessons.” He sighs through parted lips, pausing. “I guess because he was nice to me, I—well, I really fell for it, didn’t I? And I knew my mum wouldn’t like it, even without the magic side of things. But I just thought she was being… well. My mum,” he scoffs, shaking his head mournfully.

He looks like a right sorry state, all porcelain skin and feathery curls, mouth set in a miserable grimace, wistful and the embodiment of melancholia.  

"Hey, come on.” Louis prods his leg and settles his own across Harry’s lap. “He manipulated you. Wanted you on his side for his own twisted gain. He played to your weaknesses, your obvious trait of believing the good in people by switching personalities. This isn't your fault, okay?"

Louis tells him again, looking him in the eye.

“Okay?”

Harry still seems guilt-ridden, rubbing his face over Louis’ shoulder.

“Yeah…” he mumbles finally. “I still feel really stupid, though.”

“Don’t, though. You shouldn’t feel stupid.”

“I’ll try not to,” Harry says with a sheepish half-smile.

“Good,” Louis grins, nosing at Harry's hair, overwhelmed with the leftover traces of his apple shampoo filling his nose and a smell that’s so distinctly Harry that his belly erupts with fondness and butterflies and he finds he needs to clutch him tighter.

(Pitter, patter…)

“Why does he think he has a right to be in your coven, anyway?” 

Harry sighs. 

“Jacob has always said his bloodline can be traced a few generations back to ours. I can’t remember specifically who he thinks he’s an ancestor of. There’s probably a book of everyone stored somewhere… But I dunno if it’s true,” Harry answers drowsily. He’s so soft like this, comfortable, curved in on himself and cuddled into Louis, making himself smaller by curling his long, gangly legs up towards his chest.

Louis’ hand clutches his hip, his other still sifting slowly through the silkiness of his chestnut hair.

Harry yawns, full and unabashed. Louis smothers his grin in his hair. “Probably why he can’t stay away… He’s obsessed with all of us, I think. Not even just Brooke. The whole family.”

“Weird,” Louis mutters, frowning deeply, wondering why then, if he might be connected to their bloodline, why Jacob is so dead set on making sure the curse continues to stay active if he might be affected himself. “Has he said specifically who he’s sure he’s related to?”

"No."

Louis hums.

They lie there for a while, limbs entangled and their soft breaths blanketing the lowly-lit room, long enough for Louis to wonder whether Harry's fallen asleep. It’s late now, really late. Or early, depending on how you see it. But as though hearing him, Harry chooses this moment to shift in his position, exhaling softly and tightening his arms around Louis, which are locked around his left hip in a secure embrace.

Louis rests his hand over both of Harry's, gently prying one away from his hip.

“Hey, your hand—there’s no mark left from where you cut it,” Louis frowns, holding Harry’s palm delicately, inspecting it closely.

“Oh, my mum healed it for me. She can take care of cuts and grazes. The rest is trickier,” Harry says wryly. “Magic can’t cure everything.”

“Magic has its limits,” Louis murmurs softly, stroking his thumb across Harry’s smooth skin.

“Yeah,” Harry whispers, eyes caught on the motion of Louis’ thumb.

In a flicker of a moment, there’s a rapidly moving shift in the intimately-built, delicate atmosphere where they lay, wrapped and pieced together like an unassuming puzzle.

The air has changed. Everything feels different… slower, gentler, perfumed with want.

Harry’s palm leaves Louis’ hand, searching, sliding over Louis’ stomach, excruciatingly slowly.

It’s heady.

Louis gulps down air through his nose, starkly aware of the clear mood change as they trade intense, hooded gazes.

Their bodies are already pressed together but Louis feels an almost desperate urge to be closer still, wants Harry’s body on top of his, be as near as possible so that every part of them is merged, touching.

Harry must feel the shift too, because his breathing sounds heavier, strikingly loud in the silence of Louis’ room, more laboured, his green eyes completely transfixed and darting across every square inch of Louis’ face.

“Harry,” Louis breathes, turning onto his side with one even movement, the sheets twisting up around his waist.

“Yeah?” Harry asks delicately, like he’s being careful, like he doesn’t want to disturb the moment.

He brings his hand up to rest on the small of Louis’ back, fingers curling inwards, caressing him over the fabric of Louis’ t-shirt, before they slowly, tentatively inch underneath his shirt. He’s torturously gentle, exploring Louis’ skin, leaving goosebumps and sparks in their wake, Louis’ breath quickening with every glide of his fingertips.

“Harry,” Louis breathes again. 

And then Harry’s soft lips graze the shell of Louis’ ear, the sensation an achingly lightweight touch, maddening, and Louis shivers, a full body shudder in the cooling night air of his room, the window nearly wide open, wanting, needing  _more._

Their gazes lock.

And it feels quiet and exhilarating and terrifying all at once.

Louis’ heart continues to thud.

With one sudden leap, Harry’s mouth catches on Louis’, his devastatingly soft lips smudging against Louis’ still closed mouth until he opens it, letting their tongues slide languidly together as they move the beds of their lips effortlessly over each other’s.

The kissing quickly deepens and then Harry wordlessly sits up, crawls into Louis’ lap, warm thighs bracketing either side of Louis’ waist.

His weight is hot and solid and a shot of adrenaline shoots through Louis’ limbs, heat already curling in his belly with Harry in this position, his mouth pulling hungrily at Louis’ own as he bends over him, his hands coming up to cup Louis’ overheated face.

Harry starts to move. Purposefully. Hips rolling with a tentative curiosity.

Louis gasps at the sensation and Harry’s eyes widen, halting his movement.

“Are you sure?” Louis asks him breathlessly.

“Yeah,” Harry nods back, his stare unyielding.

Louis’ heart roars away in the cage of his chest, desperate to break out as the hitch in Harry’s breath sends a rush of pleasure curling in the pit of Louis’ stomach. He bolts upright, jostling Harry and flips them over so that Harry is on his back; his breath hitches again deliciously, blown glossy eyes staring up at him and glowing a brilliant, _magical_ purple.

Louis sucks at the unblemished skin beneath Harry’s smooth jaw, eliciting a helpless quiet whimper as he tosses his head back, exposing his neck for Louis to do with it what he will.

With his legs on either side of Harry’s waist, Louis settles himself deliberately atop Harry’s lower body, gives an experimental shift over his groin. A stuttered moan crackles from Harry’s throat and suddenly, Louis is spurred into action. He rolls his hips with an added burst of pressure, utterly focused on the expressions of Harry’s face, whose eyes fall closed, brows furrowed in concentration.

He paws at Louis, sliding hands everywhere, before settling on clutching tightly at Louis’ hips, urging him on.

And so Louis lets loose.

With one taut arm holding onto the headboard, his other hand grips tightly onto Harry’s hipbone, lining their bodies up until he feels the hot press of a hand against his stomach.

“Wait,” Harry gasps, hastily tugging his trackies down to his thighs.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” Harry nods hurriedly, “yeah, yeah.”

Louis keeps his thin shorts on and starts to move wantonly against Harry, relentless with alternating levels of pressure, an intense bout of heat building in his gut.

This is what Louis wants, has wanted for so long now, truthfully since he first saw Harry pull up on his bike onto his driveway, his face set in a persistent glare, eyes so, so green.

He closes his eyes, lowering himself down so he’s hovering over Harry’s chest, burying his face in Harry’s sweaty neck.

Focusing on nothing.

Not on anything that's troubling them, chasing them, worrying them enough to keep them awake.

He forgets it all.

Focuses only on the sound of their breaths, sharp and quick, their soft whimpers falling from their parted mouths, crackling from their throats, and Harry’s solidness underneath him as he holds Louis tighter, his fingers pressing firmly into the top of Louis’ bum.

“Pull them down,” Louis instructs, riotously half-mad with how turned on he is. He just… he _needs_. He needs to feel Harry. All of him.

“What?” Harry mumbles, eyes closed.

“My shorts. Pull them down,” Louis gasps.

Harry’s eyes fling open and his hands hastily tug at the elastic, palming Louis’ bare cheeks vigorously.

He’s about to ask Harry if he wants to pull his down too, but as if reading his mind, his hands leave Louis’ bum and he wriggles and shimmies in his own, dragging both his tracksuit bottoms and pants down to his knees so that Louis is met with the evidence of how turned on Harry is.

It shoots a wild thrill up Louis’ spine, and unthinkingly, he reaches for Harry’s dick, thumbs at the wet slit before wrapping his palm around it in a loose grip.

Harry’s mouth falls open, face contorted in dazed pleasure.

Louis feels like his skin is too tight, dizzy with want. “Can I—” he says huskily. “Our—” he lowers himself over Harry, desperate with the urge to slide their naked dicks together.

Harry’s chin meets the top of his sternum, eyes widening as he understands what Louis wants.

“Yes, yeah,” he breathes.

“Hang on—”

Louis leans over the side of the bed, scrabbling around his top drawer for lube.

He settles back down, straddling Harry as he drizzles a generous amount over his fingers and quickly slicks them both up before starting to move again, grinding into Harry, feeling both cold wetness and burning heat as their skin slides together.

“Oh, god,” Harry whines. “That’s good. Yeah, yeah—that’s—yeah.”

They build up a steady rhythm of their hips, but it’s not long at all before Louis’ thrusts become erratic, sloppy as his body desperately searches for its release.

“Lou,” Harry rumbles in his chest, arms wrapping around Louis’ back like an anchor, digging his face into Louis’ shoulder, his t-shirt half hanging off his arm now. “Kiss me,” is his muffled plea. “Louis, kiss me. Please.”

As Harry pulls back, Louis crashes their slick mouths together, and one more roll of his hips and Harry abruptly tenses up, grappling at Louis’ shoulders as he comes, head thrown back in pleasure.

Louis flattens himself over Harry’s spasming body, whose curls are a mess, cheeks aglow with blotchy pink, and he hooks the other boy’s bent legs around his middle as he grinds against Harry’s hipbone, panting into the base of Harry’s throat.

“Harry,” he says helplessly, and after a moment, hazily realises Harry is now guiding the drive of Louis’ hips, kissing his neck deeply, the scrape of Harry’s teeth all it takes to follow Harry and fall apart, letting the rush of endorphins soak his taut body.

He collapses onto Harry’s chest with a breathless, “oof”.

Harry sluggishly rolls them over so that he’s the one covering Louis like an octopus, their hot cheeks pressed together, chests heaving as their lungs swallow air to come down.

There's silence for a few moments.

And then Harry laughs. Breathless, exhilarated, crimson-cheeked giggles, having to smother the noise he’s making by throwing his face into Louis’ pillow.

"What you laughing at?" Louis asks, falling into laughter himself, sweaty and sated and a bit delirious.

"We rubbed off on each other," Harry grins, bright, loose, his full mouth glistening and bitten red.

"We did," Louis grins back, watching Harry fling his arms above his head, gazing up at Louis adoringly. "Was it... okay?"

"More than," Harry beams drowsily.

Louis' heart soars as he kisses him, open-mouthed and wet and it should be disgusting but it's the best thing he's ever tasted.

And he's happy.

God, even if it's temporary, even if it only lasts for tonight and that’s all, Louis is _happy._

"That was great," Harry mumbles against Louis' lips, still grinning. "Thank you."

That makes Louis laugh harder. "You're... welcome?"

"Yes. Thanks. Felt wicked."

"Quite."

"Yeah," Harry beams further, a faint blush on his cheeks. “We should definitely do that again soon.”

Louis laughs again, his own cheeks burning as he kisses him, and Harry lets him, loosens further as Louis threads and swipes his fingers through Harry's untamed hair, memorising the way Harry flicks his trusting, emerald gaze across Louis' face, eyelids falling closed at the sensation, soft breaths whistling from his nose.

"Sleep?" Louis says when he comes back with a wet flannel and tosses a pair of clean boxers at Harry's face.

He whips it off after a beat, a disgruntled pout on his puffy kissed lips.

Louis kisses the pout right off again. Harry smiles sleepily, the force of his dimples turning Louis' limbs wobbly.

"Mmhm. 'kay. Sleep now," Harry agrees with a mumble, removing his t-shirt and shimmying under the covers, sliding back into Louis' arms, his breaths even within seconds.

 

***

 

When Louis slowly blinks awake, his body instantly craves warm skin and a morning kiss, his arm already reaching out across the mattress, the cool side of the bed. 

Harry’s gone.

For a split-second, Louis' overcome with panic and dread, a brief but painful pang in the centre of his chest. And then his brain kicks into gear and the rationality comes back.

Harry must have just woken up before Louis and magicked himself back to his own bedroom, to his own house, to avoid any awkward and hard to explain accidental encounters with either Louis' mum or Amy. And that'd be a hell of an explanation they would have had to have come up with when they're both wearing little clothing and clinging to each other's bodies in a very un-platonic way.

Still.

Louis’s stomach instantly drops, and he finds himself frowning, already missing the balmy weight of Harry’s body in his arms, having slept amazingly well.

He doesn’t have time to ponder it, though, because a loud crash in the kitchen puts a stop to that.

With a drawn-out, exhausted groan, he checks the time on his digital alarm clock.

Fuck, it’s almost one in the afternoon.

He scrambles out of bed, realising a beat before he makes it to the bathroom that he slept naked last night.

He doesn’t quite remember forgetting to put on some clean boxers, but he does remember throwing a clean pair at Harry’s head.

He chuckles thinking about Harry’s unimpressed glare and decides to skip the shower for now, in favour of inspecting what the racket is downstairs, a slew of clanking and hollow banging prompting Louis to wonder if his mum has lost a specific utensil, and is now currently tipping the kitchen upside down to find it.

When he gets downstairs, the kitchen is indeed a tip. All their plastic containers and pans and pots, cereal boxes and other food items, a bunch of paperwork and rubbish from the drawers are scattered over the kitchen surfaces.

Okay.

So, his mum is definitely looking for something.

“Alright, mum?” he asks, voice gruff with morning disuse, scratching at his exposed belly.

She jumps, whirling around with wide eyes. “Louis. You’re up at last,” she says, slightly out of breath. Her hair is frizzy, untied and flowing around her shoulders, a loose shirt hanging from her short frame.

“Are you okay?” Louis eyes her with concern. She looks completely frazzled, a spooked look in her eyes. “What’s up?”

He instantly feels his throat close up. “What’s happened?”

“What were you doing last night? Who were you with?” she asks, voice strange. It sounds frightened. 

“What… what do you mean?”

She can't know Harry was here? How would she know that? Did she come to Louis' room last night? 

Shit. Did she hear them?

"Did someone come here? While we were away?"

While they were away?

"Mum... what's going on? You're scaring me," Louis chuckles nervously.

"Louis, I need to know."

“Alright, yes. Someone did come to the door on Monday. It was just some guy. He was lost. It doesn’t matter,” he lies.

His mum doesn’t waver.

“No,” she says resolutely, eyeing him intently. She walks towards him, cautiously, and puts her hands on either side of Louis’ face. “You know who he was, don’t you?”

They’re cold.

Louis flinches.

"Louis, you've been having nightmares on and off since you were little. Ever since you got lost that time, remember? Then you stopped telling me about them when you got older, but I assumed they'd stopped. I... hoped they'd stopped," she says, defeated. 

Blinking, Louis can only stare, his heart pounding. "Do you see... Do you have nightmares, too? Mum, do you dream about things that end up happening in real life?"

“Not… often,” his mum says, her voice shaky, “but I had one last night… about you, son. And it was so vivid, so terrifying… I had to check on you this morning and... I saw Harry.”

Oh, fuck. His mum doesn’t even know he’s gay. Oh, god. This couldn’t come at a worse time.

“Harry?” Louis echoes, voice barely audible.

She nods.

“I saw you both curled up together, and I should scold you for having someone in the house without telling me, but you looked so… peaceful. Like that. The two of you. And I almost didn't want to disturb you, either of you. But then Harry woke up and saw me, and well. He apologised for staying the night without my permission and then before I could say anything else, he just gathered his clothes and legged it down the stairs and out the front door."

Oh, god.

There’s a long, heavy pause.

"But the dream I had… Louis, darling. I… don’t want you to see that boy anymore.”

The words come out of nowhere, hitting Louis straight in his gut.

“What?”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she says, voice laced with sadness. “He's a good boy… lovely, even. But no good can come of your—well—yours and—”

“I’m gay.”

Louis blurts it out quickly, the words rushed. He can only hear the racing of his heart, the blood rushing in his ears.

Rip it off like a plaster. Isn’t that what they say?

“Did you know that?”

His mum only looks at him, watches him with creased, resolved brows. She doesn’t look surprised, or disappointed, or embarrassed, or heaven forbid, disgusted.

But she sure as hell doesn’t look happy either.

She leans her hand on the table, her other covering her forehead, closes her eyes briefly.

“I wasn’t sure… but," she hesitates, "I’d seen you a few times—with that lad? From the chippy? The one who’s got a right mouth on him," she frowns. "But... then you with were that girl for a while—Hayley, is it? I wasn’t sure…”

Louis drags his hands through his bed hair, far too tired for this conversation right now. His throat is dry and his eyes are still dusty with sleep.

His heart is pounding.

He wants Harry.

“No, there’s—that’s nothing, Mum,” Louis starts, his voice cracking in the middle. “I—I _was_ sort of seeing that lad… Finn. But I'm not now. I wasn’t going to tell you because—I wasn’t quite there yet. And I—I didn’t want you to know about Harry because—”

“There’s something more to them, isn’t there? That family? Anne. Harry…” Her voice is weighty, unfazed, as though she already knows…

“What’s going on, Mum?” Louis asks hopelessly. “Why do I keep having these nightmares? Did you know Ames has been having the same dream I’ve been having?”

His mum stares.

“Oh, god,” she whispers, squeezing her eyes shut. “I didn’t think it would affect her, too. I thought she’d skip it.”

“Skip what?” Louis raises his voice, growing frustration bubbling under his skin.

“Why don’t you sit down, love? I need to tell you something and it might come as a bit of a shock. It doesn’t even sound real. Sounds silly, really. Even now—sometimes I still don’t believe it myself—”

“No, just tell me.”

“Louis, sit down. We’ll have a cuppa—”

“ _Mum_ ,” he urges.

“Alright,” she agrees. Nods dazedly. “Right, well. Way back, when your great-nan was around, she told us she could see things. When she slept. She had dreams. Visions, is what she called them, as did your nan. And when I was about five, I started having dreams, too. They terrified me at first. But then as I got older, I think I got used to them. And I’d say things. Odd things. To your nan. And she’d be staggered. Because the things I was saying, sometimes, well... almost all of the time... they turned out to be true.”

Louis stutters out a startled laugh. “Are we all psychics, Mum? Seers or summat?”

“Well,” she says, feigning lightness. “I suppose so, yes.”

Louis stares, letting it sink in. There’s a name for what’s been happening to him. There’s an explanation for why he has these dreams.

Psychic.

He's... psychic. 

“Some people would call us that. Some even think what we can do is a gift. Others would call it a curse.”

Louis tries not to wince at the word.

“And I… Oh, Lou, I know it sounds ridiculous. But you know what I’m talking about, don’t you? You've felt it. Experienced things. I've always kept a close eye on you. Especially when you ran off that time when you were little. Got lost. Rambled about seeing a boy in a graveyard.”

Louis' brows furrow, a pang of recognition in his mind.

A boy. A graveyard. A fire by a headstone. A woman with dark, friendly eyes who took him home.

Louis thinks of all the strange things that have happened to him since then. Things he knew that he couldn’t explain. They _are_ real. They _are_ visions. Miraculously and terrifyingly, Louis can see the future?

He feels a wave a relief and… overwhelming terror.

God. His nightmares _are_ real. Which means he _will_ be chased through the woods, with Harry in tow, blood on their hands, their faces, Jacob on their tail, shouting after them, wanting to… what? Kill them? All of that is actually going to happen? And when? When will it happen? Can he stop it? Is he just supposed to wait for it to pass?

“But why,” he croaks, “haven’t you ever told me this before? Why now?”

His mother shakes her head, brows furrowed. “It never… it didn’t seem right to me, to use it. Your nan and her mother, they honed their skill, read tarot cards, did readings for people who believed in this sort of thing. They made money out of the truth. Right up until they died. And I—I wasn’t interested in that.” A beat. “The truth isn't always good. Not after your father. But I don’t want to talk about that.”

Louis would like to talk about that. He wants to talk about this very much. “Why? What happened?”

His mum suddenly lets out a sob, covering her mouth. “Not today, darling.”

Louis’ heart pangs, bites the inside of his cheek. "I’m sorry—”

“No, no. Don’t be, love." She smiles through her glazed eyes.

“Do you think something bad is going to happen to me? If I carry on seeing Harry? Because it’s too late, right? If you saw what I saw. And Amy did, too. All of us. Then what we’re seeing can’t be changed, can it?"

“I don’t know. If it's a fixed point in time, we can't do anything about it. You can't mess with fate," she whispers, face twisting in distress. Louis steps toward her and takes her hand in his. Squeezes it reassuringly. Though, what can he reassure her of really? "Small things can be avoided. Sometimes. But they end up meaning different things anyway, following outcomes that were unexpected or misinterpreted. I was never any good at all this. That was your grandmothers' expertise," she chuckles sadly.

Half-smiling, she leans in close, pressing the side of their heads together. "But we'll be okay. We always are."

“Right," Louis nods back, tries smiling but it must look more like a painful wince instead.

They quieten. 

“I might—ask Anne about this.”

Louis looks at her closely. “Do you know? About them?”

“I’ve had visions. Inklings.” She restlessly fiddles with the collar of her green top. “I think I know,” she says, voice cautious. “You do, then?”

“I can’t say it,” Louis insists, his loyalty to The Styles’ still strong, and to Harry. Always for Harry now. “You’ll have to guess, Mum.”

A beat.

Another beat.

“Witches,” she laughs, disbelieving, covering her mouth once more. “It all makes sense now.”

"Yeah, lots," Louis quips, arching his brows. 

"Oh, love. You know I'm proud of you, don't you? I love you. Whoever you are. You're my clever, kind and wonderful boy."

Louis takes a shaky breath. "I love you, too." He smiles, let's his mum kiss his forehead.

More quiet settles for a moment as Louis stares at the mess around the kitchen.

“What were you looking for?” he asks, gesturing the tip that is their kitchen.

She hesitates. “A letter.”

Louis frowns. “Addressed to Harry?”

“No. Actually… it was addressed to you?” She half-smiles, watery and small. “It was a while back. I never opened it because I’d dreamed of it. A man gave it to me on the driveway. But he wasn’t a postman. It scared me.”

Louis’ pulse speeds up. “Did he tell you his name?”

“Yes, uh...” his mum starts, pressing her fingers against her temple. “A Jake? Jacob?”

Fuck.

“Mum," Louis says gravely, "we need to talk to Anne.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “We do.”

**Author's Note:**

> to reblog on tumblr [here's the fic post](http://curlsandlashes.tumblr.com/post/178800056381/our-place-by-the-moon-by-pearlydewdrops-wip) :)


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